ANDERSEN'S    WORKS 


LIBRARY 

CAU 

SAN  DIEGO 


XWG7 


A    POET'S    BAZAAR. 


A  PICTURESQUE  TOUR  IN  GERMANY,  ITALY, 
GREECE,  AND  THE  ORIENT. 


BY 

HANS    CHRISTIAN   ANDERSEN, 

AUTHOR  OF   "THE  IMPROVISATORS,"   "IN   SPAIN   AND  A  VISIT  TO 
PORTUGAL,"  ETC. 


V  attrition* 


BOSTON: 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY. 
<j.  br  Htoerfitte  Press, 


CONTENTS. 


GERMANY. 

PAGB 

I.  THE  SPANISH  DANCERS  .......  i 

II.  BREITENBURG 3 

III.  A  REMINISCENCE  FROM  THE  STEAMBOAT  "STOREN"  .  6 

IV.  LISZT 8 

V.  THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS n 

VI.  THE  RAILROAD     .........        13 

VII.  GELLERT'S  GRAVE 17 

VIII.  NUREMBERG 18 

IX.  A  WISH  ACCOMPLISHED 24 

X.  MUNICH 26 

XI.  TYROL 34 

ITALY. 

I.  ENTRANCE  INTO  ITALY 40 

II.  A  NIGHT  ON  THE  APENNINES 46 

III.  THE  BRONZE  HOG 49 

IV.  TRAVELLING  WITH  THE  VETTURINO 60 

V.  ARRIVAL  AT  ROME 77 

VI.  THE  BORGHESE  FAMILY  .......  80 

VII.  THE  CHURCHES  IN  ROME 82 

VIII.  FAIRY  PALACES  IN  REALITY 86 

IX.  CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  ROME 92 

X.  THREE  ROMAN  BOYS 94 

XI.  RELIGIOUS  CUSTOMS         .......       96 

XII.  THE  CASCADES  OF  TIVOLI 102 

XIII.  MY  BOOTS 105 

XIV.  THE  EMPEROR'S  CASTLE 109 

XV.  ST.  CANUTE       .........      in 

XVI  THE  COLISEUM  113 

XVII.  THE  CARNIVAL 115 

XVIIL  PEGASUS  AND  THE  VETTURINO  HORSES      .       .       .       .119 

XIX.  MALIBRAN-GARCIA  is  DEAD 124 

XX.  A  PROSPECT  FROM  MY  WINDOW  IN  NAPLES       .       •       .  126 


iv  CONTENTS. 

turn 

XXI.  A  NEAPOLITAN  CORRICOLO               .       *       •       .       •      129 
XXII.  DEPARTURE  FROM  ITALY •       .131 

XXIII.  THE  STEAMER'S  PASSAGE 135 

XXIV.  SICILY 136 

XXV.  MALTA 140 

GREECE. 

I.  A  FEW  DAYS  IN  THE  MEDITERRANEAN        ....  149 
II.  PANORAMA  OF  SOUTH  MOREA  AND  THE  CYCLADES  .       .      154 

IIL  THE  BAY  OF  PIRAEUS 160 

IV.  ARRIVAL  AT  ATHENS 161 

V.  THE  ACROPOLIS 167 

VI.  A  RAINY  DAY  IN  ATHENS 171 

VII.  THE  RHAPSODISTS 173 

VIII.  DAPHNE 177 

IX.  THE  FF.AST  OF  FREEDOM .181 

X.  THE  MARBLE  LION 186 

XI.  THE  EASTER  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE 187 

XII.  THE  COURT  IN  ATHENS 189 

XIII.  PROKESCH-OSTEN 193 

XIV.  A  SHORT  JOURNEY 196 

XV.  FRIENDSHIP'S  COVENANT 198 

XVI.  DEPARTURE  FROM  GREECE 207 

THE  EAST. 

I.  A  STORM  IN  THE  ARCHIPELAGO 211 

II.  SMYRNA 213 

III.  A  ROSE  FROM  HOMER'S  GRAVE 215 

IV.  A  LITTLE  BIRD  HAS  SUNG  ABOUT  rr 217 

V.  THE  DARDANELLES  AND  THE  SEA  OF  MARMORA  .       .       .  218 

VI.  ARRIVAL  AT  CONSTANTINOPLE  AND  PERA  ....     224 

VII.  THE  BAZAARS 228 

VIII.  A  RAMBLE  THROUGH  CONSTANTINOPLE      ....      231 

IX.  THE  DERVISES'  DANCE 236 

X.  A  TURKISH  SKETCH 242 

XI.  THE  CEMETERY  AT  SCUTARI 244 

XII.  MOHAMMED'S  BIRTHDAY 246 

XIII.  VISIT  AND  DEPARTURE 253 

XIV.  THE  BOSPHORUS 258 

XV.  THK  BLACK  SEA 266 

XVL  A  STEPPE-JOURNEY  BETWEEN  THE  BLACK   SEA  AND  THE 

DANUBE 269 


CONTENTS.  V 

THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  DANUBE. 

*AGB 
I.  FROM  CZERNA-WODA  TO  RUSTZUK 276 

II.  WE  SAIL 281 

III.  A  TURBULENT  PASSAGE 282 

IV.  SERVIA'S  DRYADS .       .      287 

V.  THE  PASHA  OF  ORSOVA 293 

VI.  THE  QUARANTINE 294 

VII.  IT  is  SUNDAY  TO-DAY 300 

VIII.  A  JOURNEY  ALONG  THE  DANUBE  FROM  ORSOVA  TO  DREN- 

COVA 301 

IX.  A  VOYAGE  UP  THE  DANUBE  FROM  DRENCOVA  TO  SEMLIN  .  308 

X.  FROM  SEMLIN  TO  MOHACS 315 

XI.  THE  SWINEHERD 319 

XII.  FAIR  GUESTS 321 

XIII.  PESTH  AND  OPEN 323 

XIV.  THE  DANUBE  FROM  PESTH  TO  VIENNA     ....     326 

HOMEWARD  BOUND. 

I.  VIENNA'S  THEATRE 332 

II.  PROFILES 335 

III.  THE  WORKMAN 337 

IV.  A  GRAVE 338 

V.  A  NORTHWARD  FLIGHT 339 


A  POETS   BAZAAR. 

GERMANY. 
I. 

THE   SPANISH   DANCERS. 

IN  the  summer  of  1840,  some  Spanish  dancers,  who  were 
staying  in  Copenhagen,  drew  all  the  inhabitants  of  that 
city  to  the  old  theatre  in  Kongens  Nytorv  (the  King's  new 
market,  which  is  no  market).  The  whole  town  talked  about  the 
Spanish  national  dance,  and  the  newspapers  spread  the  report 
of  their  fame  throughout  the  land.  I  was  at  that  time  on  a 
visit  to  Baron  Stampe  at  Nyso,  that  home  which  our  immor- 
tal Thorwaldsen  found,  and  which,  by  the  works  he  executed 
there,  has  become  a  remarkable  place  in  Denmark. 

From  Thorwaldsen  I  got  the  first  verbal  account  of  the 
Spanish  dancers ;  he  was  transported  and  inspired,  as  I  had 
never  before  seen  him.  "  That  is  a  dance  !  there  are  attitudes ! 
there  are  forms  and  beauty ! "  said  he,  and  his  eyes  glistened 
while  he  spoke.  "  See  !  one  is  in  the  South  when  one  sees 
that  dance ! " 

One  forenoon  when  I  entered  his  atelier,  I  saw  a  bass-relief 
representing  a  dancing  Bacchus  and  Bacchante  completed  in 
clay.  "  The  Spanish  dancers  have  given  me  the  idea,"  said 
he  ;  "  they  also  can  dance  thus  ;  I  thought  of  their  charming 
dance  when  I  did  this." 

I  was  very  desirous  of  seeing  these  children  of  Spain  —  of 
seeing  the  charming  Dolores  Serral.  The  Copenhagen  public 
has  now  forgotten  her. 

I  went  to  Copenhagen,  and  saw  —  a  dance  that  made  me  for- 
get the  painted  scenery  and  the  lamp-lights.  I  was  with  them 


2  A    POET'S  BAZAAR. 

in  Valencia's  dales  ;  I  saw  the  beautiful  beings  whose  every 
motion  is  grace,  every  look  passion. 

After  my  arrival  in  the  city  I  saw  Dolores  dance  every  evetc 
inij  :  but  I  never  met  her  off  the  stage,  —  I  never  saw  her  ex- 
cept when  she  danced  in  public. 

It  was  now  the  end  of  October,  as  cold,  rainy,  and  stormy 
as  we  generally  have  it  in  our  dear  country.  The  Spanish 
dancers  were  going  ;  Dolores  said,  like  Preciosa  :  "  To  Valen- 
cia ! "  but  the  way  from  Copenhagen  to  Valencia  is  over 
Kiel.  She  must  go  with  the  steamer  Christian  the  Eighth,  in  a 
northern  autumn,  cold  and  stormy.  Half  of  the  good  folks 
who  had  collected  together  to  bid  their  friends  farewell,  were 
sea-sick  on  the  little  trip  from  the  land  to  the  steam-vessel. 

It  was  a  northern  billow-dance  !  Dolores  was  immediately 
faint ;  her  pretty  limbs  were  extended  for  a  rest,  which  was 
no  rest.  One  sea  after  the  other  washed  over  the  deck ;  the 
wind  whistled  in  the  cordage  ;  once  or  twice  the  steamer 
seemed  to  stand  still,  and  as  if  bethinking  itself  whether  it 
were  not  best  to  turn  back  again.  The  decanters  and  plates, 
although  they  were  lashed  fast,  trembled  as  if  with  fear  or  by 
instinct.  There  was  such  a  clattering  and  creaking ;  every 
plank  in  the  vessel  groaned,  and  Dolores  sighed  so  loud  that 
it  pierced  through  the  deck.  Her  fine,  pliant  foot  stretched 
itself  convulsively  against  the  thin,  wooden  partition  —  her 
forehead  touched  the  other. 

A  ship  is,  however,  a  strange  world  !  To  the  right  we  are 
separated  from  a  death  in  the  waves  —  to  the  left  another  thin 
plank  is  as  a  cherub's  sword.  Dolores  sighed,  and  I  sighed 
also.  We  lay  here  a. whole  night,  and  literally  sighed  for  each 
other  ;  and  the  waves  danced  as  Dolores  could  not  dance,  and 
-ung  as  I  could  not  sing  ;  and  during  all  this  the  ship 
went  on  its  powerful  course  until  the  bay  of  Kiel  encompassed 
us,  and  by  degrees  one  passenger  after  the  other  went  on  deck. 

I  told  Dolores  what  an  impression  her  dancing  had  made 
on  the  first  sculptor  of  our  age ;  I  told  her  about  Bacchus  and 
icchante,  and  she  blushed  and  smiled.  I  really  fancied 
that  we  danced  a  fandango  together  on  the  green  plain  under 
the  fragrant  acacias.  She  gave  me  her  hand,  but  it  was  to 
take  leave  —  she  travelled  direct  to  Valencia. 


BREITENBURG.  £ 

Many  years  hence  Dolores  will  be  an  old  woman,  and  she 
will  dance  no  more  ;  but  then  the  towns  and  cities  which  she 
had  delighted  with  her  presence  will  dance  before  her;  and 
she  will  then  remember  the  metropolis  on  the  green  isle  in  the 
North  amidst  the  stormy  sea  which  she  sailed  over  ;  she  will 
think  of  that  bass-relief  in  which  she  still  soars  so  young  and 
beautiful :  and  her  fingers  will  glide  down  the  rosary  which 
she  sits  with  in  the  balcony,  and  she  will  look  over  the 
mountains.  And  they  who  stand  around  the  old  woman,  then 
will  ask  her :  "  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Dolores  ?  " 

And  she  will  smile  and  answer :  "  I  was  on  a  voyage  to  the 
North  1 " 


II. 

BREITENBURG. 

MY  carriage  turned  off  from  the  highway  between  Kiel  and 
Hamburg  over  the  heath,  as  I  wished  to  pay  a  visit  to  Breiten- 
burg :  a  little  bird  came  twittering  toward  me,  as  if  it  would 
wish  me  welcome. 

The  Liinenburg  heath  is  year  after  year  more  and  more 
covered  with  plantations,  houses,  and  roads,  whereas  its  con- 
tinuation through  the  Duchies  of  Sleswick  and  Holstein,  and 
into  Jutland,  has  still  for  the  most  part  the  same  appearance 
as  in  the  last  century. 

There  are  character  and  poetry  in  the  Danish  heath  :  here 
the  starry  heavens  are  large  and  extended  ;  here  the  mist  soars 
in  the  storm  like  the  spirits  of  Ossian,  and  solitude  here  gives 
admittance  to  our  holiest  thoughts.  Groups  of  crooked  oaks 
grow  here  like  the  ghosts  of  a  forest,  stretching  out  their 
moss  covered  branches  to  the  blast ;  an  Egyptian  race,  with 
chestnut  skin  and  jet  black  eyes,  here  leads  a  herdsman's  life, 
roasts  in  the  open  air  the  stolen  lamb,  celebrates  a  marriage, 
and  dances  outside  the  house,  which  is  quickly  raised  with 
ling-turf,  in  the  midst  of  this  solitary  heath. 

My  carriage  moved  but  slowly  on  in  the  deep  sand.  I  really 
believe  one  might  be  sea-sick  from  driving  here.  We  go  con 


4  A    POET'S  BAZAAR. 

tinually  forward  through  a  desert  and  deserted  Jegion  ;  the 
few  houses  one  comes  to  are  extended  barns,  where  the  smoke 
whirls  forth  through  the  open  door.  The  houses  have  no 
chimneys  ;  it  is  as  if  the  hearth  were  wanting,  as  if  within 
there  was  no  home,  as  if  only  the  stranger,  in  wandering  over 
the  heath,  had  kindled  a  hasty  fire  here  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  to  warm  himself  a  little,  and  had  then  proceeded  on  his 
way.  The  chimneys  on  the  peasant's  house,  and  the  curling 
smoke  make  it  homely  ;  the  chimney  ornaments  enliven  almost 
as  much  as  the  flower-beds  before  the  house  ;  but  here  the 
houses  were  in  harmony  with  the  heath  and  the  cold  autumn 
day.  The  sun  certainly  shone,  but  it  had  no  warm  rays  ;  it 
was  perhaps  not  even  the  sun  itself,  but  only  its  shining  garb 
which  glided  over  the  sky.  We  met  not  a  human  being  —  not 
a  drove  of  cattle  was  to  be  seen.  One  might  almost  believe 
that  everything  was  asleep,  or  bound  by  enchantment. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  a  fertile  landscape  for  the  first  time 
presented  itself ;  we  saw  a  large  wood,  the  sunshine  gave  its 
brown  leaves  the  appearance  of  a  copper  forest,  and  just  then 
as  a  large  herd  of  cattle  came  out  of  the  thicket,  and  stared 
at  us  with  their  large  eyes,  a  whole  adventure  arose  before  me 
of  the  enchanted  city  in  the  copper  forest 

Behind  the  wood  we  passed  through  a  large  village  which, 
if  it  did  not  lead  me  into  the  land  of  adventure,  yet  brought 
me  back  into  another  century.  In  the  houses,  the  stable, 
kitchen,  and  living-room  seemed  to  be  in  one.  The  road  was 
deep  mud,  in  which  lay  large  blocks  of  stone.  This  was  very 
picturesque,  but  it  became  still  more  so ;  for  in  the  midst  of 
that  thick  forest,  a  knightly  castle  with  tower  and  gable  front 
shone  in  the  evening  sun,  and  a  broad  and  deep  stream  wound 
its  way  between  it  and  us. 

The  bridge  thundered  under  the  horse's  hoofs  ;  we  rolled 
on  through  wood  and  garden-grounds,  into  the  open  castle- 
yard,  where  busy  lights  flitted  behind  the  windows,  and  every- 
thing appeared  rich  and  yet  homely.  In  the  centre  of  the 
yard  stands  a  large  old  well,  with  an  artificially  wrought  iron 
fence,  and  from  thence  flew  a  little  bird  —  it  was  certainly  the 
same  that  had  twittered  a  welcome  greeting  to  me  when  I  be- 
gan my  drive  over  the  heath.  It  had  come  hither  before  me, 


BREITENBURG.  5 

it  had  announced  my  coming  j  and  the  castle's  owner,  the 
noble  Rantzau,  led  his  guest  into  a  pleasant  home.  The 
dishes  smoked  on  the  table,  and  the  champagne  exploded 
Yes,  it  was  certainly  enchantment !  I  thought  of  the  stormy 
sea,  of  the  solitary  heath,  and  felt  that  a  man  may,  neverthe- 
less, be  at  ease  in  this  world. 

The  birds  twittered  outside  whilst  I  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow ;  the  light  fell  by  chance  on  the  well,  and  it  appeared  AS 
if  the  bucket  went  up  and  down  of  itself,  and  in  the  middle 
of  the  bucket  sat  a  little  brownie  or  fairy,  and  nodded  a  wel- 
come to  me.  I  certainly  did  not  mistake,  for  the  brownie's 
grandfather  once  presented  a  golden  cup  to  a  Rantzau  of 
Breitenburg,  when  the  knight  rode  by  moonlight  through  the 
forest.  The  goblet  is  still  preserved  in  the  old  carved  oak 
press  in  the  knight's  hall  over  the  chapel.  I  have  seen  it  my- 
self, and  the  old  pictures  on  the  wall,  all  proud  knights,  moved 
their  eyes  ;  it  was  in  the  clear  sunshine :  had  it  been  on  a 
moonlight  night,  they  would  assuredly  have  stepped  out  of 
their  frames,  and  drunk  a  health  to  the  worthy  Count  who 
now  rules  in  old  Breitenburg. 

"  The  happiness  of  Paradise  has  no  history  !  "  says  a  poet ; 
"  the  best  sleep  has  no  dreams,"  say  I ;  and  in  Breitenburg 
night  brought  no  dreams.  By  daylight,  on  the  contrary,  old 
sagas  and  recollections  anticipated  thought :  they  greeted  me 
in  the  ancient  alleys  of  the  garden,  they  sat  and  nodded  to 
me  on  the  winding  stairs  of  the  watch-tower,  where  the  Scotch 
lay  on  the  alert,  when  Wallenstein's  troops  had  encamped 
without.  Wallenstein  put  the  men  to  death  by  the  sword,  and 
as  the  women  in  the  castle  would  not,  at  his  command,  wash 
the  blood  from  the  floor,  he  had  them  also  killed. 

In  the  beautiful  scenery  around  were  old  reminiscences. 
From  the  high  tower  of  the  castle  I  looked  far  and  wide  over 
the  richly  fertile  Marskland,  where  the  fat  cattle  wade  in  the 
summer  up  to  their  shoulders  in  grass.  I  looked  over  the 
many  forests  in  which  Ansgarius  wandered,  and  preached 
the  Christian  religion  to  the  Danish  heathens.  The  little  vil- 
lage of  Willenscharen  in  this  neighborhood  still  bears  evi- 
dences of  his  name  ;  there  was  his  mansion,  and  there  he 
lived ;  the  church  close  by  Heiligenstadte,  where  the  ground 


6  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

was  grown  up  around  the  walls,  is  also  from  his  time ;  and 
it  is  still,  as  it  was  then,  reflected  in  the  Storen,  over  which  he 
rowed  in  his  miserable  fishing-boat  to  the  little  path  between 
the  reeds. 

I  wandered  in  the  castle  garden  under  the  old  trees,  by  the 
winding  canals ;  elder-trees  and  rose-bushes  bent  themselves 
over  the  watery  mirror  to  see  how  prettily  they  flowered.  The 
gamekeeper  with  his  dog  took  his  way  into  the  copper-colored 
forest  The  post-horn  clanged,  and  it  was  as  if  wood  and  field 
were  made  vocal,  and  joined  in  the  death-hymn  of  autumn  : 
"  Great  Pan  is  dead  I " 

When  the  sun  was  down,  the  sound  of  glass  and  song  was 
heard  in  the  castle.  I  wandered  through  the  saloon,  whose 
dark  red  walls  encompass  bass-reliefs  by  Thorwaldsen,  and 
give  relief  to  the  beautiful  busts  and  statues.  A  hedge  of 
roses  and  sweet-briers  outside  leaned  up  against  the  windows 
with  its  leafless  branches,  and  it  dreamt  of  the  summer  life 
within  the  saloon  —  that  it  was  itself  young  and  flourishing  — 
and  that  every  brier  was  a  bud  that  would  open  itself  on  the 
morrow.  The  brownie  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  well,  and  kept 
time  with  his  small  feet ;  the  little  bird  twittered,  "  It  is  pretty 
in  the  North  I  —  it  is  well  to  be  in  the  North !  "  and  yet  the 
bird  flew  to  the  warm  lands,  —  and  the  poet  did  the  same. 


III. 

A  REMINISCENCE   FROM   THE   STEAMBOAT   "  STOREN." 

BY  the  waters  of  the  Storen  there  lay  two  small  houses,  one 
on  each  side  of  the  river,  each  of  them  snug  and  pretty,  with 
a  green  gable  and  a  few  bushes ;  but  outside  the  one  hung 
an  outstretched  net,  and  a  large  vane  turned  itself  in  the  wind. 
How  often  had  not  two  pretty  eyes  looked  from  one  of  these 
small  houses  over  to  this  vane  when  it  turned  itself,  and  a 
faithful  heart  then  sighed  deeply. 

We  took  a  pretty  young  woman  on  board  here  ;  she  was  of 
what  we  call  the  lower  class,  but  so  neatly  dressed,  so  young, 
to  pretty,  and  with  a  beautiful  little  child  at  the  breast.  The 


REMINISCENCE  FROM  THE  STEAMBOAT  "STOREN."     J 

good  folks  nodded  to  her  from  both  the  houses,  —  they  wished 
her  joy  and  happiness !  The  weather-cock  turned  so  that  it 
creaked,  but  her  pretty  eyes  did  not  look  up  to  it ;  for  now 
she  did  not  care  to  know  which  way  the  wind  blew !  and  so 
away  we  went.  All  was  green,  but  flat,  and  always  the  same 
on  each  side ;  the  little  river  runs  in  one  continued  curve. 

We  were  now  on  the  Elbe,  that  great  high-road  from  Ger- 
many ;  and  vessels  came  and  went  on  it.  Our  boat  darted 
across  ;  we  went  over  to  the  Hanoverian  side  to  fetch  passen- 
gers, and  then  to  the  Holstein  side,  and  then  again  to  the 
Hanoverian,  and  yet  we  got  no  passengers.  I  looked  at  the 
young  woman  ;  she  seemed  to  be  equally  as  impatient  as  my- 
self; she  was  always  at  the  forepart  of  the  vessel,  and  looking 
intently  forward,  with  her  hand  over  those  pretty  eyes.  Was 
it  the  towers  of  Hamburg  she  sought  ?  She  kissed  her  child, 
and  smiled,  yet  tears  were  in  her  eyes !  Two  steam- vessels 
darted  past  us ;  and  a  ship  in  full  sail  was  taking  emigrants 
to  America.  Before  us  lay  a  magnificent  vessel ;  it  had  come 
direct  from  thence,  and  was  now  sailing  up  against  the  wind. 
The  flag  waved  !  as  we  approached,  a  boat  was  let  loose  ;  four 
sailors  seized  the  oars  ;  a  strong,  active,  black-bearded  man, 
who  appeared  to  be  the  steersman  on  board,  took  the  rudder ; 
we  lay  still,  and  the  young  wife  flew,  rather  than  ran,  with  her 
sleeping  child.  In  a  moment  she  was  in  the  light,  rocking 
boat,  and  in  the  arms  of  that  black-haired,  sunburnt  man. 

That  was  a  kiss  !  that  was  the  bouquet  of  a  long  year's 
sweet  longing :  and  the  child  awoke  and  cried,  and  the  man 
kissed  it,  and  took  his  wife  around  the  waist  ;  and  the  boat 
swung  up  and  down,  as  if  it  sprang  with  joy,  and  the  brown 
sailors  nodded  to  each  other,  —  but  we  sailed  away,  and  I 
looked  on  the  flat  and  naked  shores. 


8  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

IV. 

LISZT. 

IT  was  in  Hamburg,  in  the  hotel  Stadt  London,  that  Listt 
gave  a  concert.  In  a  few  moments  the  saloon  was  quite  filled. 
I  came  too  late,  yet  I  got  the  best  place,  close  up  to  the 
tribune  where  the  piano-forte  stood,  for  they  conducted  me 
up  the  back  stairs. 

Liszt  is  one  of  the  kings  in  the  realm  of  tones  ;  and  my 
friends,  as  I  said,  —  for  I  am  not  ashamed  to  acknowledge  it, 
—  conducted  me  to  him  up  one  of  the  back  stairs. 

The  saloon,  and  even  the  side  rooms  gleamed  with  lights, 
gold  chains,  and  diamonds.  Not  far  from  where  I  stood  lay 
a  fat,  dressed-out  young  Jewess  on  a  sofa ;  she  resembled  a 
walrus  with  a  fan.  Wealthy  Hamburg  merchants  stood  walled 
up  against  each  other  as  if  it  were  an  important  matter  "  on 
Change  "  that  was  to  be  discussed.  A  smile  sat  on  their 
mouths,  as  if  they  had  all  bought  Exchequer  bills  and  railway 
shares,  and  gained  immensely. 

The  Orpheus  of  mythology  could  set  stones  and  trees  in 
motion  with  his  music.  The  modern  Orpheus,  Liszt,  had 
electrified  them  already  ere  he  played.  Fame,  with  her  many 
tongues,  had  opened  the  eyes  and  ears  of  the  multitude,  so 
that  all  seemed  to  recognize  and  hear  what  was  to  follow.  I 
myself  felt  in  the  beams  of  those  many  sparkling  eyes  an  ex- 
pectant palpitation  of  the  heart,  on  the  approach  of  this  great 
genius,  who  with  magic  fingers  defines  the  boundaries  of  his 
art  in  our  age ! 

Our  age  is  no  longer  that  of  imagination  and  feeling ;  it 
b  the  age  of  intellect.  The  technical  dexterity  in  every  art 
and  in  every  trade  is  now  a  general  condition  of  their  exer 
cise ;  languages  have  become  so  perfected  that  it  almost  be- 
longs to  the  art  of  writing  themes  to  be  able  to  put  one's 
thoughts  in  verse,  which  half  a  century  ago  would  have  passed 
for  a  true  poet's  work  ;  in  every  large  town  we  find  persons 
by  the  dozen  who  execute  music  with  such  an  expertness,  that 
twenty  year*  ago  they  might  have  been  accounted  virtuosi 


LISZT.  9 

All  that  is  technical,  the  material  as  well  as  the  spiritual,  is  in 
this  our  age  in  its  highest  development. 

Our  world's  geniuses,  —  are  they  not  the  modern  scum  or 
foam  wrought  on  the  ocean  of  our  age's  development  ?  But 
real  spirits  must  be  able  to  suffer  a  critical  dissection,  and 
raise  themselves  far  above  that  which  can  be  acquired  :  each 
in  his  intellectual  sphere  must  not  only  complete  the  work, 
but  add  something  more.  They  must,  like  the  coral  insect, 
make  an  addition  to  art,  or  their  activity  is  as  nothing. 

In  the  musical  world  our  age  has  two  pianists  who  thus  fill 
their  allotted  place  —  they  are  Thalberg  and  Liszt. 

When  Liszt  entered  the  saloon,  it  was  as  if  an  electric 
shock  passed  through  it.  Most  of  the  ladies  rose  ;  it  was  as 
if  a  ray  of  sunlight  passed  over  every  face,  as  if  all  eyes  re- 
ceived a  dear,  beloved  friend. 

I  stood  quite  near  to  the  artist :  he  is  a  meagre  young  man, 
his  long  dark  hair  hung  around  his  pale  face  ;  he  bowed  to 
the  auditory,  and  sat  down  to  the  piano.  The  whole  of  Liszt's 
exterior  and  movements  show  directly  one  of  those  persons 
we  remark  for  their  peculiarities  alone ;  the  Divine  hand  has 
placed  a  mark  on  them  which  makes  them  observable  amongst 
thousands.  As  Liszt  sat  before  the  piano,  the  first  impres- 
sion of  his  personality  was  derived  from  the  appearance  of 
strong  passions  in  his  wan  face,  so  that  he  seemed  to  me  a 
demon  who  was  nailed  fast  to  the  instrument  from  whence  the 
tones  streamed  forth,  —  they  came  from  his  blood,  from  his 
thoughts ;  he  was  a  demon  who  would  liberate  his  soul  from 
thralldom ;  he  was  on  the  rack,  the  blood  flowed,  and  the 
nerves  trembled  ;  but  as  he  continued  to  play,  the  demon 
disappeared.  I  saw  that  pale  face  assume  a  nobler  and 
brighter  expression ;  the  divine  soul  shone  from  his  eyes,  from 
every  feature  ;  he  became  beauteous  as  spirit  and  enthusiasm 
can  makt  their  worshippers. 

His  "  Valse  Infernale  "  is  more  than  a  daguerreotype  pic- 
ture of  Meyerbeer's  "  Robert  le  Diable  !  "  We  do  not  stand 
apart  and  contemplate  this  well  known  picture  ;  we  gaze 
fixedly  into  its  depths,  and  discover  new  whirling  figures.  It 
sounded  not  like  the  chords  of  a  piano ;  no,  every  tone  seemed 
Uke  trickling  water-drops. 


10  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

He  who  admires  art  in  its  technical  dexterity  must  respect 
Liszt ;  he  who  is  charmed  by  his  genius  must  respect  him 
still  more. 

The  Orpheus  of  our  times  has  caused  his  tones  to  resound 
through  the  world's  great  emporium,  and  they  found  and  ac- 
knowledged, as  a  Copenhagener  has  said,  that,  "  his  fingers 
are  railroads  and  locomotives ;  "  his  genius  still  mightier  in 
drawing  together  the  intellectual  spirits  of  the  universe  than 
all  the  railways  on  earth.  The  modern  Orpheus  has  caused 
the  European  counting-house  to  resound  with  his  tones,  and 
at  that  moment  at  least,  the  people  believed  the  Evangelist: 
the  gold  of  the  spirit  has  a  mightier  sound  than  the  world's. 

We  often  hear  the  expression  "  a  flood  of  tones,"  without 
defining  it ;  but  it  is  indeed  a  "  flood  "  which  streams  from 
the  piano  where  Liszt  sits.  The  instrument  appears  to  be 
changed  into  a  whole  orchestra  ;  this  is  produced  by  ten  fin- 
gers which  possess  an  expertness  that  may  be  called  fanatical 
—  they  are  led  by  the  mighty  genius.  It  is  a  sea  of  tones, 
which,  in  its  uproar,  is  a  mirror  for  every  glowing  mind's 
momentary  life's  problem.  I  have  met  politicians  who  con- 
ceived that  from  Liszt's  playing  the  peaceful  citizen  could  be 
so  affected  by  the  tones  of  the  Marseillaise  Hymn  as  to  seize 
the  musket,  fly  from  hearth  and  home,  and  fight  for  an  idea. 
I  have  seen  peaceful  Copenhageners,  with  Danish  autumn's 
mist  in  their  blood,  become  political  bacchanals  from  his 
playing;  and  mathematicians  have  become  dizzy  with  figures 
of  tones  and  calculations  of  sounds.  The  young  followers 
of  Hegel  —  the  really  gifted,  and  not  the  empty-headed  who 
only  make  a  spiritual  grimace  at  the  galvanic  stream  of  phi- 
losophy, beheld  in  this  flood  of  tones  the  billowy-formed  prog- 
ress of  science  toward  the  coast  of  perfection.  The  poet 
found  in  it  his  whole  heart's  lyric,  or  the  rich  garb  for  his 
most  daring  figures.  The  traveller,  thus  I  gather  from  myself, 
gets  ideas  from  tones  of  what  he  has  seen,  or  shall  see.  I 
heard  his  music  as  an  overture  to  my  travels  ;  I  heard  how 
my  own  heart  beat  and  bled  at  the  departure  from  home; 
I  heard  the  billows'  farewell  —  billows  which  I  was  not  to 
hear  again  ere  I  saw  the  cliffs  of  Tcrracina.  It  sounded  like 
the  organ's  tones  from  Germany's  old  minsters  ;  the  avalanche 


THE  MAID   OF  ORLEANS.  II 

rolled  down  from  the  Alpine  hills,  and  Italy  danced  in  her 
carnival  dress,  whilst  her  heart  thought  of  Caesar,  Horace, 
and  Raphael !  Vesuvius  and  ^Etna  threw  out  their  lava,  and 
the  last  trumpet  sounded  from  the  mountains  of  Greece  where 
the  old  gods  died ;  tones  I  knew  not,  tones  I  have  no  words 
to  express,  spoke  of  the  East,  the  land  of  imagination,  the 
poet's  other  father-land. 

When  Liszt  had  ceased  playing,  flowers  showered  around 
him  :  beautiful  young  girls,  and  old  ladies  who  had  once  been 
young  and  beautiful,  cast  each  her  bouquet.  He  had  cast  a 
thousand  bouquets  of  tones  into  their  hearts  and  heads. 

From  Hamburg  Liszt  was  to  fly  to  London,  there  to  throw 
out  new  bouquets  of  tones,  which  exhale  poesy  over  that 
prosaic  every-day  life.  That  happy  one,  who  can  thus  travel 
all  his  life,  always  see  people  in  their  poetical  Sunday  dress ! 
Yes,  even  in  the  inspired  bridal  dress !  Shall  I  again  meet 
him  ?  was  my  last  thought ;  and  chance  would  have  it  that 
we  should  meet  on  our  travels,  —  meet  at  a  place  where  my 
reader  and  I  least  could  imagine  ;  meet,  become  friends,  and 
again  separate ;  but  it  belongs  to  the  last  chapter  of  this 
flight.  He  went  to  Victoria's  capital,  and  I  to  Gregory 
X  VI.'s. 


V. 

THE  MAID   OF   ORLEANS. 
A  SKETCH. 

WE  were  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Elbe.  The  steam 
boat  glided  down  on  the  Hanoverian  side  between  the  low 
green  islands,  which  presented  us  with  prospects  of  farm- 
houses and  groups  of  cattle.  I  saw  happy  children  playing 
on  the  half-drawn  up  boats,  and  thought  how  soon  this  play 
must  be  over,  how  they  would  perhaps  fly  far  forth  into  the 
world,  and  then  would  come  the  remembrance  of  these  small 
flat  islands,  like  the  Hesperian  gardens  with  their  childhood's 
golden  apples  and  oranges. 

We  were  now  at  Harburg :  every  one  looked  after  his  own 


12  A   POETS  BAZAAR. 

baggage,  and  saw  it  placed  on  the  porter's  barrow  ;  but  a  tall 
and  rather  stout  lady  with  a  proud  carriage  not  in  harmony 
with  her  faded  chintz  gown,  and  a  cloak  which  had  certainly 
been  turned  more  than  once,  shook  her  head  at  every  porter 
who  stretched  out  his  hand  to  take  her  little  travelling  bag, 
which  she  held  in  her  hand.  It  was  a  man's  bag  in  every  way, 
and  she  would  not  give  it  into  other  hands,  for  it  was  as  if  it 
contained  a  valuable  treasure.  She  followed  slowly  after  us 
all  into  the  quiet  town. 

A  little  table  was  laid  for  me  and  a  fellow-traveller,  and 
they  asked  us  if  a  third  could  be  permitted  to  take  a  place  at 
the  table.  This  third  person  arrived ;  it  was  the  lady  in  the 
faded  gown  ;  a  large  boa,  somewhat  the  worse  for  wear,  hung 
loosely  about  her  neck  :  she  was  very  tired. 

"  I  have  travelled  the  whole  night,"  said  she  ;  "  I  am  an 
actress !  I  come  from  Lubeck,  where  I  performed  last  night ; " 
and  she  sighed  deeply  as  she  loosened  her  cap-strings. 

"  What  is  your  line  ? "  I  asked. 

"  The  affecting  parts,"  she  replied  ;  and  threw  her  long  boa 
over  one  shoulder  with  a  proud  mien.  "Last  night  I  was 
The  Maid  of  Orleans.  I  left  directly  after  the  close  of  the 
piece,  for  they  expect  me  in  Bremen.  To-morrow  I  shall  make 
my  appearance  there  in  the  same  piece  ; "  she  drew  her 
breath  very  deep,  and  threw  the  boa  again  over  the  other 
shoulder. 

She  immediately  ordered  a  carriage,  as  she  intended  to 
travel  post ;  but  it  was  to  be  only  a  one  horse  chaise,  or  she 
would  prefer  one  of  the  landlord's  own,  and  a  boy  with  her,  for 
in  case  of  need  she  could  drive  herself.  "  One  must  be  eco- 
nomical, particularly  in  travelling,"  said  she.  I  looked  at  her 
pale  face  ;  she  was  certainly  thirty  years  of  age,  and  had  been 
very  pretty  ;  she  still  played  The  Maid  of  Orleans,  and  only 
the  affecting  parts. 

An  hour  afterward  I  sat  in  the  diligence  ;  the  horn  clanged 
through  the  dead  streets  of  Harburg ;  a  little  cart  drove  on 
before  us.  It  turned  aside,  and  stopped  for  us  to  pass ;  I 
looked  out,  it  was  "  The  Maid  of  Orleans  "  with  her  little  bag 
between  her  and  a  boy,  who  represented  the  coachman.  She 
greeted  us  like  a  princess,  and  kissed  her  hand  to  us ;  the 


THE  RAILROAD. 


'3 


long  boa  waved  over  her  shoulders.  Our  postilion  played  a 
merry  tune,  but  I  thought  of  "  The  Maid  of  Orleans,"  the  old 
actress  on  the  cart,  who  was  to  make  her  entry  into  Bremen  on 
the  morrow,  and  I  became  sad  from  her  smile  and  the  postilion's 
merry  tones.  And  thus  we  each  went  our  way  over  the  heath. 


VI. 

THE   RAILROAD. 

As  many  of  my  readers  have  not  seen  a  railroad,  I  will 
first  endeavor  to  give  them  an  idea  of  such  a  thing.  We  will 
take  an  ordinary  high-road  :  it  may  run  in  a  straight  line,  or  it 
may  be  curved,  that  is  indifferent ;  but  it  must  be  level  —  level 
as  a  parlor  floor,  and  for  that  purpose  we  blow  up  every  rock 
which  stands  in  the  way ;  we  build  a  bridge  on  strong  arches 
over  marshes  and  deep  valleys,  and  when  the  level  road  stands 
clearly  before  us,  we  lay  down  iron  rails  where  the  ruts  would 
be,  on  which  the  carriage  wheels  can  take  hold.  The  locomo- 
tive is  placed  in  front,  with  its  conductor  or  driver  on  it,  who 
knows  how  to  direct  and  stop  its  course ;  wagon  is  chained 
to  wagon,  with  men  or  cattle  in  them,  and  so  we  travel. 

At  every  place  on  the  way  they  know  the  hour  and  the  min- 
ute that  the  train  will  arrive ;  one  can  also  hear,  for  miles,  the 
sound  of  the  signal  whistle,  when  the  train  is  coming :  and 
round  about  where  the  by-roads  cross  the  railway  the  guard 
or  watchman  puts  down  a  bar,  so  as  to  prevent  those  who  are 
driving  or  walking  from  grossing  the  road  at  a  time  when  the 
train  is  approaching  ;  and  the  good  folks  must  wait  until  it 
has  passed.  Along  the  road,  as  far  as  it  extends,  small  houses 
are  built,  so  that  those  who  stand  as  watchmen  may  see  each 
other's  flag  and  keep  the  railroad  clear  in  time,  so  that  no 
stone  or  twig  lie  across  the  rails. 

See,  that  is  a  railroad !  I  hope  that  I  have  been  under- 
stood. 

It  was  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I  had  seen  such  a  one. 
For  half  a  day  and  the  succeeding  night,  I  had  travelled  with 
the  diligence  on  that  horribly  bad  road  from  Brunswick  to 


14  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

Magdeburg,  and  arrived  at  the  latter  place  quite  tired  out,  and 
an  hour  afterward  I  had  to  set  out  again  on  the  railroad. 

I  will  not  deny  that  I  had  previously  a  sort  of  feeling  which 
I  will  call  rail  way- fever,  and  this  was  at  its  height  when  I  en- 
tered the  immense  building  from  whence  the  train  departs. 
Here  was  a  crowd  of  travellers,  a  running  with  portmanteaus 
and  carpet-bags,  and  a  hissing  and  puffing  of  engines,  out  of 
which  the  steam  poured  forth.  At  first  we  know  not  rightly 
where  we  dare  stand,  fearing  that  a  carriage,  or  a  boiler,  or  a 
baggage  chest  might  come  flying  over  us.  It  is  true  that  one 
stands  safely  enough  on  a  projecting  balcony  ;  the  carriages  we 
are  to  enter  are  drawn  up  in  a  row  quite  close  to  it,  like  gondo- 
las by  the  side  of  a  quay,  but  down  in  the  yard  the  one  rail 
crosses  the  other  like  magic  ties  invented  by  human  skill ;  to 
these  ties  our  magic  car  should  confine  itself,  for  if  it  come  out 
of  them  life  and  limb  are  at  stake.  I  gazed  at  these  wagons,  at 
the  locomotives,  at  loose  baggage  wagons,  and  Heaven  knows 
what ;  they  ran  amongst  each  other  as  in  a  fairy  world.  Every- 
thing seemed  to  have  legs  ;  and  then  the  steam  and  the  noise 
united  with  the  crowding  to  get  a  place,  the  smell  of  tallow,  the 
regular  movement  of  the  machinery,  and  the  whistling,  snort- 
ing, and  snuffing  of  the  steam  as  it  was  blown  off,  increased 
the  impression  ;  and  when  one  is  here  for  the  first  time,  one 
thinks  of  overturnings,  of  breaking  arms  and  legs,  of  being 
blown  into  the  air,  or  crushed  to  death  by  another  train  ;  but 
I  think  it  is  only  the  first  time  one  thinks  of  all  this.  The 
train  formed  three  divisions  ;  the  first  two  were  comfortably 
closed  carriages,  quite  like  our  diligences,  only  that  they  were 
much  broader  ;  the  third  was  open  c.nd  incredibly  cheap,  so 
that  even  the  poorest  peasant  is  enabled  to  travel  by  it :  it  is 
much  cheaper  for  him  than  if  he  were  to  walk  all  the  distance, 
and  refresh  himself  at  the  ale-house,  or  lodge  on  the  journey. 
The  signal  whistle  sounds,  but  it  does  not  sound  well  ;  it  bears 
no  small  resemblance  to  the  pig's  dying  song,  when  the  knife 
passes  through  its  throat.  We  get  into  the  most  comfortable 
carriage,  the  guard  locks  the  door  and  takes  the  key  ;  but  we 
can  let  the  window  down  and  enjoy  the  fresh  air  without  being 
in  danger  of  suffocation  :  we  are  just  the  same  here  as  in  an- 
other carriage,  only  more  at  ease  :  we  can  rest  ourselves,  if 
we  have  made  a  fatiguing  journey  shortly  before. 


THE  RAILROAD.  j  5 

The  first  sensation  is  that  of  a  very  gentle  motion  in  the 
carriages,  and  then  the  chains  are  attached  which  bind  them 
together ;  the  steam  whistle  sounds  again,  and  we  move  on  ; 
at  first  but  slowly,  as  if  a  child's  hand  drew  a  little  carriage. 
The  speed  increases  imperceptibly,  but  you  read  in  your  book, 
look  at  your  map,  and  as  yet  do  not  rightly  know  at  what 
speed  you  are  going,  for  the  train  glides  on  like  a  sledge  over 
the  level  snow-field.  You  look  out  of  the  window  and  dis- 
cover that  you  are  careering  away  as  with  horses  at  full  gallop , 
it  goes  still  quicker;  you  seem  to  fly,  but  here  is  no  shaking, 
no  suffocation,  nothing  of  what  you  anticipated  would  be  un- 
pleasant. 

What  was  that  red  thing  which  darted  like  lightning  close 
past  us  ?  It  was  one  of  the  watchmen  who  stood  there  with 
his  flag.  Only  look  out !  and  the  nearest  ten  or  twenty  yards 
you  see,  is  a  field  which  looks  like  a  rapid  stream  ;  grass  and 
plants  run  into  each  other.  We  have  an  idea  of  standing 
outside  the  globe,  and  seeing  it  turn  round ;  it  pains  the  eye 
to  keep  it  fixed  for  a  long  time  in  the  same  direction ;  but 
when  you  see  some  flags  at  a  greater  distance,  the  other  ob- 
jects do  not  move  quicker  than  they  appear  to  do  when  we 
drive  in  an  ordinary  way,  and  further  in  the  horizon  everything 
seems  to  stand  still ;  one  has  a  perfect  view  and  impression  of 
the  whole  country. 

This  is  just  the  way  to  travel  through  flat  countries !  It  is 
as  if  town  lay  close  to  town  ;  now  comes  one,  then  another. 
One  can  imagine  the  flight  of  birds  of  passage,  —  they  must 
leave  towns  behind  them  thus. 

Those  who  drive  in  carriages,  on  the  by-roads,  seem  to  stand 
still ;  the  horses  appear  to  lift  their  feet,  but  to  put  them  down 
again  in  the  same  place  —  and  so  we  pass  them. 

There  is  a  well  known  anecdote  of  an  American,  who,  trav- 
elling for  the  first  time  on  a  railroad,  and  seeing  one  mile- 
stone so  quickly  succeed  another,  thought  he  was  speeding 
through  a  church  yard,  and  that  he  saw  the  monuments.  I 
should  not  cite  this,  but  that  it — with  a  little  trans-atlantic 
license,  to  be  sure  —  characterizes  the  rapidity  of  this  manner 
of  travelling  ;  and  I  thought  of  it,  although  we  do  not  see  any 
mile-stones  here.  The  red  signal  flags  might  stand  for  them, 


1 6  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

and  the  same  American  might  have  said,  "  Why  is  every  on« 
out  to-day  with  a  red  flag  ?  " 

I  can,  however,  relate  a  similar  story.  As  we  sped  past 
some  railings  that  appeared  to  me  to  be  a  pole,  a  man  who 
sat  beside  me  said,  "  See  !  now  we  are  in  the  principality  of 
Cothen,"  and  then  he  took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and  offered  me 
his  box :  I  bowed,  took  a  pinch,  sneezed,  and  then  asked : 
"  How  far  are  we  now  in  Cothen  ? "  —  "  O,"  replied  the  man, 
"we  left  it  behind  us  while  you  were  sneezing!  " 

And  yet  the  trains  can  go  twice  as  quickly  as  they  did  on 
this  occasion ;  every  moment  one  is  at  a  fresh  station,  where 
the  passengers  are  set  down  and  others  taken  up.  The  speed 
of  the  whole  journey  is  thus  diminished :  we  stop  a  minute, 
and  the  waiter  gives  us  refreshments  through  the  open  window, 
light  or  solid,  just  as  we  please.  Roasted  pigeons  literally  fly 
into  one's  mouth  for  payment,  and  then  we  hurry  off;  chatter 
with  our  neighbor,  read  a  book,  or  cast  an  eye  on  nature  with- 
out, where  a  herd  of  cows  turn  themselves  round  with  astonish- 
ment, or  some  horses  tear  themselves  loose  from  the  tether 
and  gallop  away,  because  they  see  that  twenty  carriages  can 
be  drawn  without  their  assistance,  and  even  quicker  than  if 
they  should  have  to  draw  them,  and  then  we  are  again  sud- 
denly under  a  roof  where  the  train  stops.  We  have  come 
seventy  miles  in  three  hours,  and  are  now  in  Leipsic. 

Four  hours  after,  on  the  same  day,  it  again  proceeds  the 
same  distance  in  the  same  time,  but  through  mountains  and 
over  rivers  ;  and  then  we  are  in  Dresden. 

I  have  heard  many  say  that  on  a  railroad  all  the  poetry  of 
travelling  is  lost,  and  that  we  lose  sight  of  the  beautiful  and 
interesting.  As  to  the  last  part  of  this  remark,  I  can  only  say 
tftat  every  one  is  free  to  stay  at  whatever  station  he  chooses, 
and  look  about  him  until  the  next  train  arrives  ;  and  as  to  all 
the  poetry  of  travelling  being  lost,  I  am  quite  of  the  contrary 
opinion.  It  is  in  the  narrow,  close-packed  diligences  that 
poetry  vanishes :  we  become  dull,  we  are  plagued  with  heat 
and  dust  in  the  best  season  of  the  year,  and  in  winter  by  bad, 
heavy  roads ;  we  do  not  see  nature  itself  in  a  wider  extent, 
but  in  longer  draughts  than  in  a  railway  carriage. 

O  what  a  noble  and  great  achievement  of  the  mind  is  this 


GELLERT'S  GRA  VE.  \  7 

production !  We  feel  ourselves  as  powerful  as  the  sorcerers 
of  old  !  We  put  our  magic  horse  to  the  carriage,  and  space 
disappears  ;  we  fly  like  the  clouds  in  a  storm  —  as  the  bird  of 
passage  flies  !  Our  wild  horse  snorts  and  snuffs,  and  the  dark 
steam  rushes  out  of  his  nostrils.  Mephistopheles  could  not 
fly  quicker  with  Faust  on  his  cloak  !  We  are,  with  natural 
means,  equally  as  potent  in  the  present  age,  as  those  in  the 
Middle  Ages  thought  that  only  the  devil  himself  could  be  ' 
With  our  cunning  we  are  as  his  side,  and  before  he  knows  it 
himself  we  are  past  him. 

I  can  remember  but  a  few  times  in  my  life  that  I  ever  felt 
myself  so  affected  as  I  was  on  this  railroad  journey :  it  was  thus 
with  all  my  thoughts  —  that  I  beheld  God  face  to  face.  I  felt 
a  devotion  such  as,  when  a  child,  I  have  felt  in  the  church  alone 
and  when  older,  in  the  sun-illumined  forest,  or  on  the  sea  in  a 
dead  calm  and  starlight  night.  Feeling  and  Imagination  are 
not  the  only  ones  that  reign  in  the  realm  of  poetry :  they  have 
a  brother  equally  powerful ;  he  is  called  Intellect :  he  pro- 
claims the  eternal  truth,  and  in  that  greatness  and  poetry  re- 
side. 


VII. 

GELLERT'S  GRAVE. 

GELLERT  is  buried  in  one  of  the  church-yards  in  Leipsic. 
The  first  time  I  was  in  Germany,  in  the  year  1830,  I  visited 
this  grave  ;  Oehlenschlager's  gifted  daughter,  Charlotte,  was 
at  that  time  on  a  visit  to  Brockhaus ;  she  conducted  me  to 
the  poet's  grave.  A  thousand  names  were  scratched  on  the 
grave-stone  and  cut  in  the  wooden  palings  around  it  ;  we  also 
wrote  our  names.  She  broke  off  a  rose  from  the  grave,  and 
gave  it  me  as  a  remembrance  of  the  place. 

Ten  years  afterward  I  came  this  way  alone.  I  found  the 
church-yard  easily  enough  ;  but  the  grave  itself  I  could  not 
find.  I  asked  a  poor  old  woman  where  Gellert  was  buried, 
and  she  showed  me  the  place.  "  Good  men  are  always  sought 
for,"  said  the  old  woman  ;  "  he  was  a  great  man  !  "  and  she 
'ooked  on  the  «imple  grave  with  peaceful  devotion.  I  soughl 


1 8  A   POETS  BAZAAR. 

amongst  the  many  written  names  for  the  two  that  were  in- 
scribed when  I  was  last  here  ;  but  the  railings  had  been  lately 
painted  over,  perhaps  painted  several  times  since  then.  New 
names  were  written,  but  the  name  on  the  grave-stone  —  Gel- 
lert's  name  —  remained  the  same.  It  will  be  discovered  there 
when  those  lately  written  have  disappeared  and  new  ones 
are  inscribed  again  ;  the  immortal  name  stands,  the  names  of 
mankind  are  blotted  out.  The  old  woman  broke  off  a  rose 
for  me,  a  rose  as  young  and  fresh  as  that  which  Charlotte 
herself,  in  all  the  freshness  of  youth,  gave  to  me  at  the  same 
place  ;  and  I  thought  of  her  as  I  saw  her  then  before  me  ;  she, 
that  fresh  rose,  who  is  now  in  the  grave !  She  whose  soul 
and  mind  breathed  life's  gladness  and  the  ardor  of  youth  ! 
This  rime  I  wrote  not  my  name  on  the  railing :  I  placed  the 
white  rose  in  my  breast,  and  my  thoughts  were  with  the  dead. 


VIII. 

* 

NUREMBERG. 

Wenn  einer  Deutschland  kennen 
Und  Deutschland  Heben  soil, 
Darf  man  ihm  Niirnberg  nennen, 
Der  edlen  Kiinste  voll ; 
Die  nimmer  nicht  veraltet, 
Die  treue  fleiss'ge  Stadt; 
Wo  Diirer's  Kunst  gewaltet, 
Und  Sachs  gesungen  hat. 

SCHENKENDOW. 

THE  history  of  Casper  Hauser  bears  the  stamp  of  a  previous 
century ;  nay,  however  true  we  know  it  to  be,  we  cannot 
exactly  think  of  it  as  something  that  occurred  in  our  time  ; 
yet  it  performs  a  part  in  it,  and  amongst  the  large  towns  of 
Germany,  as  chance  would  have  it,  Nuremberg  was  the  scene 
of  this  strange  adventure. 

It  is  said  of  Kotzebue,  that  he  wrote  "The  Cross  Knights," 
to  make  the  scenery  and  decorations  of  the  theatre  available  ; 
even  so  we  may  almost  imagine  that  Casper  Hauser  was  de 


NUREMBERG.  IQ 

signed  for  the  city  of  Nuremberg  ;  for,  if  we  except  Augsburg, 
no  city  from  its  exterior  leads  us  back  into  the  Middle  Ages 
so  impressively  as  the  free,  old  "  Reichsstadt,"  Nuremberg. 
Several  years  ago,  when  I  was  in  Paris,  I  saw  a  panorama  by 
Daguerre,  —  who  has  since  become  so  famous,  —  which,  if  I 
recollect  rightly,  represented  the  Dey  of  Algiers's  summer  pal- 
ace ;  from  the  flat  roof  one  looked  over  the  gardens,  the  moun- 
tains, and  the  Mediterranean  ;  but  in  order  to  prepare  and 
bring  the  spectators  into  the  proper  mood,  we  had  to  pass 
through  some  rooms  which  were  fitted  up  in  the  Oriental  style, 
and  we  looked  through  small  windows  over  the  top  of  a  palm- 
tree  or  high  cactuses.  I  was  reminded  of  this  arrangement 
as  we  rolled  into  Nuremberg  through  ancient  France. 

From  the  moment  we  reached  the  city  of  Hof  in  Bavaria, 
everything  begins,  by  degrees,  to  sustain  that  fantasy  which, 
in  Nuremberg,  expands  into  dreams  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and 
which  finds  there  a  correct  and  well-arranged  scene  for  its  vis- 
ionings. 

After  passing  Miinchberg,  we  were  in  the  mountains ;  and 
the  country  around  displayed  a  more  romantic  character.  It 
was  in  the  evening  light.  The  mountain  "  der  Ochsenkopf," 
the  largest  here,  was  quite  hidden  by  the  misty  clouds  ;  the 
road  became  narrower  and  dark  ;  at  Bernech  it  was  quite  in- 
closed by  steep  cliffs ;  to  the  left,  at  some  yards  above  us,  stood 
a  ruined  tower,  which  in  ancient  times  certainly  commanded 
the  entrance  to  this  place.  Bernech  itself,  with  its  uneven 
streets,  the  lights  that  moved  about  within  the  old  houses  ;  the 
postilion's  music,  which  sounded  as  melancholy  as  the  tune 
of  an  old  ditty  — everything  breathed  the  spirit  of  romance. 

I  felt  inclined  to  put  words  to  these  minor  tones,  —  words 
about  the  Robber  Knight  who  lay  on  the  watch  in  the  old 
tower  whilst  the  Nuremberg  merchants  passed  the  ravine 
with  their  wares  ;  words  of  the  attack  in  the  moonlight  night, 
as  the  red  and  white  Main  saw  it,  and  afterward  related  it  to 
brother  Rhine  under  the  vine-crowned  shores. 

We  passed  through  Bayreiith,  Jean  Paul's  town,  and  in  the 
gay  light  of  morning  we  saw  the  large  city  of  Nuremberg. 

When  I  came  quite  near  to  it,  its  old  grass-grown  moats,  its 
double  walls,  the  many  gates  with  towers  in  the  form  of  up- 


JO  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

right  cannons,  the  well-built  streets,  magnificent  walls,  and 
Gothic  buildings  constrained  me  to  acknowledge,  "  Thou  art 
yet  Bavaria's  capital  !  It  is  true  thou  wert  compelled  to  give 
thy  crown  to  Munich ;  but  thy  royal  dignity,  thy  peculiar 
greatness,  thou  bearest  still !  Under  thy  sceptre,  civic  indus- 
try, art,  and  science  went  hand  in  hand  together  ;  far  and 
wide  sounded  the  strokes  of  Adam  Kraft's  hammer,  and  the 
bells  of  Master  Conrad  and  Andreas  ;  Albert  Diirer's  genius 
sounds  the  praise  of  Nuremberg's  name  louder  than  the  shoe- 
maker Hans  Sachs  could  do  it,  although  he  had  an  immortal 
voice.  Peter  Fischer  caused  the  metal  to  flow  in  bold  and 
beauteous  figures  as  they  presented  themselves  to  his  imag- 
ination ;  Regiomontan  raised  thy  name  to  the  skies,  whilst  thy 
children,  through  him,  became  greater,  comprehending  and 
appreciating  the  useful  and  the  noble.  The  marble  was  chis- 
eled into  graceful  statues,  and  the  wooden  block  transformed 
into  a  work  of  art. 

The  postilion  blew  his  horn  through  the  streets  of  Nurem- 
berg. The  houses  are  diversely  built,  and  yet  are  stamped 
with  the  same  character  ;  they  are  all  old,  but  well  preserved  , 
most  of  them  are  painted  green,  and  some  have  images  in  the 
walls ;  others  are  furnished  with  projecting  bow-windows,  and 
balconies  ;  others  again  have  Gothic  windows  with  small  octag- 
onal panes,  inclosed  in  thick  walls  ;  on  the  pointed  roofs  are 
seen  rows  of  windows,  the  one  standing  above  the  other,  and 
each  surmounted  by  a  little  tower.  The  water  of  the  foun- 
tains falls  into  large  metal  basins,  surrounded  by  wrought  iron 
balustrades  of  a  tasteful  form.  But  such  things  are  not  to  be 
described,  they  must  be  drawn !  Had  I  talent  to  have  done 
it,  I  would  have  placed  myself  on  the  old  stone  bridge  over 
the  river  whose  yellow  water  hurries  rapidly  on,  and  there 
would  have  depicted  the  singular  projecting  houses.  The  old 
Gothic  building  yonder  on  arches,  under  which  the  water 
streams,  stands  prominently  over  the  river,  adjoining  a  little 
hanging  garden  with  high  trees  and  a  flowering  hedge  !  Could 
I  paint,  I  would  go  into  the  market,  force  my  way  through  the 
crowd,  and  sketch  the  fountain  there  ;  it  is  not  so  elegant  as 
in  the  olden  times  with  its  rich  gilding,  but  all  the  splendid 
bronze  figures  stand  there  yet.  The  seven  Electoral  Princes, 


NUREMBERG.  2 1 

Judas  Maccabeus,  Julius  Caesar,  Hector,  and  others  of  like 
illustrious  names.  Sixteen  of  them  adorn  the  first  row  of  col- 
umns, and  above  these  Moses  stands  forth  with  all  the  proph- 
ets. Were  I  a  painter,  I  would  go  to  the  tomb  of  St.  Sebal- 
dus,  when  the  sunlight  falls  through  the  stained  glass  win- 
dows on  the  statues  of  the  Apostles,  cast  in  bronze  by  Peter 
Fischer,  and  the  church  and  tomb  should  be  drawn  as  they 
were  reflected  in  my  eyes  :  but  I  am  not  a  painter,  and  can- 
not delineate  them.  I  am  a  poet ;  accordingly  I  inquired 
for  Hans  Sach's  house,  and  they  showed  me  into  a  by-street, 
and  pointed  to  a  house ;  it  had  the  old  form,  but  it  was  a  new 
house.  Hans  Sach's  portrait  hung  there,  with  his  name  under 
it ;  but  it  was  not  the  house  where  he  lived  and  made  shoes. 
It  is  the  site,  but  everything  upon  it  is  new.  The  portrait 
proclaims  that  it  is  a  tavern  bearing  his  name  for  its  sign. 
Six  thousand  two  hundred  and  sixty-three  comedies,  tragedies, 
songs,  and  ballads,  are  said  to  have  been  written  here  !  * 

From  the  poet's  house  I  went  to  the  King's  palace,  and  this 
building  admirably  harmonizes  with  the  old  city  of  Nurem- 
berg. Knightly  splendor  without  and  comfort  within  !  There 
are  high  walls  :  the  court-yard  itself  is  narrow,  but  the  large 
linden-tree  that  grows  there  has  a  fragrance  which  makes  the 
place  cheerful.  The  small  rooms,  where  so  much  that  is  great 
has  occurred,  seem  to  dilate  as  we  contemplate  them  ;  for 
every  spot  here  has  a  peculiar  interest  of  its  own.2  The 
richly-painted  arms  in  the  ceiling,  the  old  pictures  of  saints, 
their  heads  surmounted  by  their  stiff  golden  glories,  with 
which  the  walls  are  ornamented,  confer  even  upon  the  small- 
est chamber  a  sort  of  grandeur  that  the  mind  gives  to  every- 
thing by  which  fancy  is  set  in  motion. 

The  stoves  are  all  of  clay,  large  and  painted  green ;  they 

1  Hans  Sachs  was  born  in  1495,  and  died  the  2oth  of  January,  1576. 

8  In  one  of  the  rooms  there  hangs  a  large  gilt  frame,  inclosing  a  small 
poem,  which  contains  the  following  thought ;  it  has  been  written  of  late 
years  by  a  book-binder  named  Schneer,  a  citizen  of  Nuremberg.  The 
terse  is  as  follows  :  — 

"  Enge  wohnte  man  sonst,  weit  war  es  aber  ira  Herzen, 
Also  ertonte  uns  jiingst  '  LudwigV  begeisterter  Spruch 
Drum  —  1st  klein  auch  die  Burg,  in  der  einst  die  Kaiser  gewohnet 
Fiihlt  sich  gewiss  hier  Sein  Herz  heimisch  im  engen  Gemach." 


22  A  POET'S  BAZAAR. 

might,  with  their  thousands  of  gilded  figures,  Christian  and 
heathen  images,  supply  material  for  strange  stories.  What 
evenings  might  not  a  child  enjoy  and  dream  away,  when  the 
fire  in  the  stove  lights  up  these  heraldic  painted  walls,  and 
the  gilded  figures  step  forth  and  disappear  again,  just  as  the 
flames  fall  on  them,  or  are  withdrawn  from  them.  From  that 
child's  imaginings  Brentano  could  compose  a  deathless  story 
for  us. 

Whilst  I  was  thinking  of  this,  the  keeper  led  me  about, 
and  repeated  the  names  and  the  dates  of  the  various  subjects. 
I  looked  at  his  little  boy  who  followed  us,  but  who  stopped 
every  moment  to  play  near  a  window.  I  would  much  rather 
have  sat  with  the  little  fellow  and  heard  him  relate  realities 
or  dreams  —  and  in  fact  most  of  the  tales  that  are  told  us  by 
older  persons  and  called  historical  are  nothing  else  than  the 
latter.  I  could  have  wished  to  have  stood  with  him  in  the 
moonlight  and  looked  over  the  old  Gothic  town,  whose  towers 
point  toward  the  stars  as  if  they  would  interpret  them  ;  to 
have  looked  over  the  plain  whence  the  postilion's  horn  sounds, 
and  then  thought  of  Wallenstein's  troopers  who  sounded  here 
to  battle :  in  the  mist  that  soars  over  the  meadows,  I  could 
fancy  I  saw  the  Swedish  troopers  who  fought  for  their  faith. 

I  should  like  to  sit  with  the  little  one  under  the  linden- 
tree  in  the  narrow  palace  yard,  and  see  with  him  what  the 
legend  says  of  Eppelin,  the  wild  Knight  of  Gailingen.  From 
his  castle  he  could  witness  every  expedition  of  the  Nuremberg 
merchants  as  they  went  with  their  wares  to  the  city,  and 
like  the  falcon  dart  upon  his  prey  ;  but  the  falcon  was  now 
caught,  the  wild  knight  pined  in  this  castle  where  the  linden- 
tree  grows  ;  his  last  morning  came,  and  he  was  permitted, 
according  to  the  good  old  custom  always  allowed  the  con- 
demned, that  before  his  death  he  might  have  a  wish  granted, 
and  the  knight  begged  that  he  might  once  more  ride  his 
faithful  steed. 

The  horse  neighed  with  pleasure,  and  proudly  bore  his 
master  round  the  little  yard :  and  the  knight  stroked  its 
powerful  and  slender  neck.  The  muscles  of  the  noble  ani- 
mal appeared  to  swell,  its  hoofs  struck  the  pavement ;  more 
and  more  vigorous  and  rapid,  it  hurried  on  in  a  circle,  so 


NUREMBERG.  2  3 

that  the  warder  and  the  soldiers  had  to  keep  themselves 
close  to  the  wall  to  afford  it  space ;  and  they  did  so  without 
fear,  for  they  knew  the  castle  gate  was  well  secured,  and  that 
the  knight  could  not  escape.  Yet,  if  they  could  have  read 
in  the  horse's  eye  what  was  there  to  read,  says  the  chron- 
icle, they  would  have  stopped  the  steed  in  its  flight,  and 
bound  the  strong  hands  of  the  wild  knight.  And  what  stood 
in  its  eye  ?  It  spoke  its  dumb  but  fiery  language  :  — 

"In  this  wretched  court  thy  knightly  blood  ought  not  to 
flow !  Here  thy  active,  merry  life  ought  not  to  end  !  Shall 
I  no  longer  bear  thee  in  the  gay  battle,  through  the  deep 
ravines  and  the  green  forests?  Shall  I  no  longer  eat  the 
corn  from  thy  brave  hand  ?  Trust  to  my  immense  strength, 
and  I  will  save  thee!" 

And  the  steed  reared,  the  knight  struck  his  spurs  in  its 
sides,  drew  his  breath  hard,  bent  himself  over  its  neck, — 
sparks  flew  from  its  iron-shod  hoofs,  and  half  the  miracle 
was  done,  for  the  horse  stood  on  the  battlements,  and  a  mo- 
ment after  they  both  flew  over  the  broad  moat,  and  were 
saved.  When  the  wind  blows  through  the  leaves  of  the  lin- 
den-tree it  tells  of  it. 

Below  the  castle,  in  a  street  close  by,  is  an  old  house  of 
three  stories,  the  one  projecting  a  little  over  the  other.  Every 
stranger  stops  to  look  at  it.  In  the  front  room  hang  shields 
with  armorial  bearings,  sent  from  the  different  towns  in  Ba- 
varia. What  house  is  this  ?  We  go  but  a  few  paces  round 
the  corner,  and  in  the  little  square  stands  the  statue  of  its 
owner :  the  metal  glitters  in  the  sun  ;  it  is  Albert  Durer's 
monument  by  Rauch.1 

The  energetic  mind  that  lived  in  Regiomontan,  Albert 
Diirer,  and  Peter  Fischer,  has  not  departed ;  there  are  vigor 
and  industry  in  this  city. 

1  The  monument  was  erected  on  the  2ist  of  May,  1840,  the  younger 
portion  of  the  community  singing  enthusiastic  songs  ;  and  at  the  illumi- 
nation which  took  place  the  following  inscription  was  seen  on  Diirer't 
house : — 

"  In  diesem  Hause  schuf  einst  Diirer  seine  Werke 
Und  hier  that  ihm  die  Kunst  den  Freudenhimmel  arf, 
Und  hoher  stieg  er  stets  mit  neuer  Kraft  und  Starke  — 
Er  lebte,  liebte,  litt,  uud  —  schlosz  hier  beinem  Lauf." 


24  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

It  is  true,  during  my  short  stay  I  only  became  acquainted 
with  one  house,  but  all  within  bore  the  stamp  of  what  we 
call  the  good  old  times.  The  master  of  this  house  was  the 
picture  of  honesty  and  sagacity,  a  man  such  as  the  people 
represent  their  old  citizens  to  have  been. 

Nuremberg  resembles  some  few  strong  old  men,  in  whom 
youth  still  remains,  in  whom  thought  is  yet  active,  and  lively, 
and  enterprising.  The  railroad  from  Nuremberg  to  Fiirth  is 
a  striking  example  of  this,  for  that  railroad  was  the  first 
laid  down  in  Germany.  Old  Nuremberg  was  the  first  city 
that  entered  into  the  gigantic  idea  of  the  new  time  —  that  of 
uniting  towns  and  cities  by  steam  and  iron  ties. 


IX. 

A   WISH   ACCOMPLISHED. 

WHEN  I  was  a  child,  I  had  a  little  show-box  in  which 
all  the  pictures  were  cut  out  of  an  old  book ;  every  picture 
represented  a  Gothic  building,  a  cloister  or  a  church,  and 
outside  were  finely  sculptured  fountains ;  but  on  each  of 
them  I  read  a  name  at  the  bottom,  and  this  name  was  on 
them  all :  "  Augsburg." 

How  often  have  I  not  looked  at  these  pictures  and  wandered 
in  thought  amongst  them  ;  but  I  could  never  rightly  get  to 
know  what  was  behind  the  street  corner.  And  now  —  now  I 
stood  in  the  midst  of  these  pictures'  realities ;  I  was  in 
Augsburg  itself!  and  the  more  I  looked  at  the  old  houses 
with  their  walls  painted  in  variegated  colors,  the  jagged 
gables,  the  old  churches  and  statues  around  the  fountains, 
the  more  it  appeared  to  me  to  be  a  piece  of  enchantment 
I  was  now  in  the  midst  of  the  show-box,  and  had  got  my 
childhood's  wish  accomplished.  If  I  desired,  I  could  get  to 
know  what  there  was  behind  the  street  corner. 

I  knew  this  street  corner  again  ;  I  went  round  it.  I  found 
—  pictures,  and  those  such  as  I  had  no  idea  of  when  a  child, 
which  not  even  the  world  knew  of  at  that  time.  Here  was  an 
exhibit 'on  of  daguerreotype  pictures,  which  a  painter  named 


A    WISH  ACCOMPLISHED.  25 

Iseuring  from  St.  Gallen  had  opened.  There  were  but  few 
landscapes  and  architectural  pieces,  but  a  number  of  portraits 
of  different  sizes,  all  taken  by  the  daguerreotype.  They  were 
excellent :  one  could  see  that  they  must  be  likenesses  ;  it  was 
as  if  one  looked  at  the  originals  "  in  little  "  on  a  steel  plate  on 
which  they  were  engraved ;  and  every  feature  was  so  exactly 
shown  that  even  the  eye  had  a  clearness  and  expression.  The 
most  felicitous  delineation  was  in  the  silk  dresses  of  the  ladies  ; 
it  seemed  as  if  one  could  hear  them  rustle.  There  were 
also  some  few  attempts  to  give  the  portraits  color ;  but  they 
all  appeared  like  faces  by  a  strong  fire-light ;  there  was  too 
much  of  a  red  illumination. 

Did  I  not  think  thus  when  a  child  ?  could  I  but  get  round 
that  corner,  I  should  get  to  see  new  pictures  ;  and  I  got  to 
see  new  ones  —  the  newest  our  time  has  given  us. 

How  did  I  not  wish  when  I  looked  through  the  glass  in  the 
show-box  :  "  O,  that  I  could  go  up  that  broad  flight  of  steps, 
and  in  through  that  old-fashioned  door !  "  I  could  now  do 
so,  and  I  did  so,  and  stood  in  the  lower  hall  of  that  splendid 
Town  Hall,  where  bronze  busts  of  Roman  emperors  gaze  at 
the  colossal  eagle,  which,  like  themselves,  was  cast  in  bronze, 
but  more  movable.  Napoleon  once  commanded  that  it  should 
fly  to  Paris.  The  Emperor's  bird  ought  to  be  in  the  Emper- 
or's city ;  and  the  bird  flew,  but  on  the  frontiers,  where  the 
tower  of  Strasbourg  stands  like  a  guide-post,  the  eagle  rested. 
At  dawn  of  morning  the  Gallic  cock  crew,  as  the  cock  crowed 
when  Peter  betrayed  his  master.  Great  events  had  come  to 
light ;  then  the  eagle  flew  back  again  to  old  Augsburg,  where 
it  still  sits  and  meditates.  That  is  what  I  saw  when  I  went 
up  the  broad  steps,  and  in  through  the  large,  old-fashioned 
door. 

"  Could  I  but  be  amongst  those  buildings ! "  was  my  wish 
when  a  child  :  and  I  came  amongst  them  in  the  only  likely 
and  desirable  manner,  although  it  was  some  years  after  that 
my  wish  was  accomplished ,  but  it  was  so  nevertheless  1  I 
was  in  Augsburg. 


26  A  POET'S  BAZA  AX. 


MUNICH. 

THE  ancient  portion  of  the  city  of  Munich  appears  to  me 
like  an  ancient  rose-tree,  from  which  new  branches  shoot 
out  every  year ;  but  every  branch  is  a  street,  every  leaf  is  a 
palace,  a  church,  or  a  monument ;  and  everything  appears  so 
new,  so  fresh,  for  it  has  but  this  moment  unfolded  itself. 

Under  the  Alps,  where  the  hop-vines  creep  over  the  high 
plains,  lies  the  Athens  of  Germany.  It  is  cheap  to  live 
here  ;  many  treasures  of  art  are  to  be  seen,  and  I  have  here 
found  many  amiable  persons  who  are  now  dear  to  me  ;  but  yet 
I  would  not  live  here,  for  the  cold  is  more  severe  than  in  Den- 
mark. The  cold  from  the  Alps  sweeps  with  an  icy  chill  over 
the  highlands  of  Bavaria,  and  where  the  Alps  themselves 
beckon  us,  like  the  Venus  Mountain,  as  it  sings,  "  Come 
hither !  come  hither  !  "  Behind  these  bold,  dark-blue  moun- 
tains lies  Italy. 

Every  city,  from  Rome  the  eternal  to  our  own  silent  Sorb, 
has  its  own  peculiar  character  with  which  one  can  be  intimate, 
even  attach  one's  self  to  ;  but  Munich  has  something  of  all 
places :  we  know  not  if  we  are  in  the  south  or  the  north.  I 
at  least  felt  a  disquiet  here,  a  desire  to  leave  it  again. 

Should  any  one  fancy  that  my  description  of  Munich  con- 
tains crude  and  contradictory  images,  then  I  have  given  the 
most  just  picture  according  to  the  impression  that  the  town 
has  made  on  me.  Everything  here  appeared  to  me  to  be  a 
contradiction.  Here  were  Catholicism  and  Protestantism. 
Grecian  art  and  Bavarian  ale.  Unity  I  have  not  found  here : 
every  handsome  detail  appears  to  have  been  taken  from  its 
original  home  and  placed  in  and  about  old  Munich,  which  is 
a  town  like  a  hundred  others  in  Germany.  The  Post-office, 
with  its  red  painted  walls  and  hovering  figures,  is  taken  from 
Pompeii ;  the  new  Palace  is  a  copy  of  the  Duke  of  Tuscany's 
palace  in  Florence,  —  each  stone  is  like  that  of  the  other. 
The  Au  Church  with  its  stained  glass  windows,  its  colossal 
lace-like  tower,  in  which  every  thread  is  a  huge  block  of  stone, 


MUNICH.  3.7 

reminds  us  of  St.  Stephen's  Church  in  Vienna ;  whilst  the 
court  chapel,  with  its  mosaic  pictures  on  a  gilt  ground,  wafts 
us  to  Italy.  I  found  but  one  part  in  Munich  that  can  be  called 
great  and  characteristic,  and  that  is  Ludwig  Street.  The 
buildings  here  in  different  styles  of  architecture  blend  together 
in  a  unity,  as  the  most  different  flowers  form  a  beautiful  gar- 
land. The  Gothic-built  University,  the  Italian  palaces,  even 
the  garden  close  by,  with  its  painted  piazzas,  supply  a  perfect 
whole.  I  think  that  if  one  drove  through  this  street,  and  from 
thence  to  Schwanthaler's  and  Kaulbach's  ateliers,  one  would 
receive  the  best  picture  of  what  Munich  is  intended  to  be ; 
but  if  one  will  see  it  as  it  really  is,  one  must  also  go  into  the 
"  Bockkeller,"  where  the  thriving  citizens  are  sitting  with  their 
tankards,  and  eating  radishes  and  bread,  whilst  the  youths 
dance  to  the  violin :  one  must  go  through  the  long  streets 
which  are  building,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  along  the 
high-road,  where  they  are  planting  houses. 

Most  of  the  young  artists  who  travel  southward  make  a 
long  stay  in  Munich,  and  afterward  speak  of  their  sojourn 
there  with  much  enthusiasm. 

But  that  they  remain  here  so  long,  may  be  attributed  to  the 
cheapness  of  the  living ;  and  if  they  come  direct  from  the 
North,  Munich  is  the  first  town  where  there  is  much  to  be 
seen.  Most  true  artists  are  natural  and  amiable  ;  a  mutual 
love  for  their  art  binds  them  together,  and  in  excellent  Bava- 
rian ale,  which  is  not  dear,  they  drink  to  that  good  fellowship 
which  in  remembrance  casts  a  lustre  on  that  city,  and  forms 
the  background  of  many  a  dear  reminiscence. 

King  Ludwig  of  Bavaria's  love  of  art  has  called  forth  all 
that  we  term  beautiful  in  Munich  ;  under  him  talent  has  found 
encouragement  to  unfold  its  wings.  King  Ludwig  is  a  poet, 
but  he  works  not  alone  with  pen  and  ink,  for  things  of  magni- 
tude he  executes  in  marble  and  colors.  His  "  Valhalla  "  is  a 
work  of  marble  erected  by  the  Danube,  where  it  visits  old  Re- 
gensburg.  I  have  seen,  in  Schwanthaler's  atelier,  the  mighty 
figures  intended  to  ornament  the  facade  toward  the  Danube, 
and  which,  when  placed  in  juxtaposition,  represent  the  battle 
of  Hermanus.  Another  composition  of  the  same  kind,  and 
great  in  idea  and  expression,  is  the  Main  and  Danube  Canal, 


28  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

whereby  the  German  Ocean  is  united  with  the  Black  Sea.  I 
saw  also  in  Schwanthaler's  atelier,  the  vignette  title  to  this 
work  —  if  I  may  presume  so  to  call  the  monument  —  which 
represents  the  river-nymph  Danube  and  the  river-god  Main. 

Konigsbau,  which,  as  I  before  said,  is  in  its  exterior  a  copy 
of  the  Palazzo  Pitti  in  Florence,  has  in  the  interior,  if  we 
except  those  rooms  that  are  decorated  in  the  Pompeiian 
style,  and  the  magnificent  Knights'  saloon,  with  the  gilded 
Electors,  an  odor  of  Germanism,  which  improves  the  fancy 
and  elevates  the  thought.  The  walls  shine  with  pictures  of 
what  Germany's  bards  have  sung,  and  the  people  have  felt 
and  understood;  the  "  Nibelungenlied  "  reveals  itself  here  in 
bold  outline  ;  the  Diver  ventures  into  the  boiling  deep  ;  Leo- 
nora rides  in  the  moonlight  with  the  dead,  and  the  Elf-king 
lures  the  child  as  it  rides  through  the  wood  with  its  father. 

A  handsome  spiral  staircase  leads  to  the  flat  roof  of  the 
palace,  from  whence  we  see  the  whole  Isar  plain  and  the 
Alps,  which,  with  me  at  least,  always  awaken  disquiet  and 
a  desire  to  travel :  I  thought  I  could  trace  my  feelings  in 
everything  beneath  me.  The  post-horn  sounded,  the  dili- 
gence rolled  away.  I  saw  the  smoke  from  the  arrowy  loco- 
motive, as  it  drew  the  train  of  carriages  on  the  railway  ;  and 
down  in  the  palace  garden,  where  the  river  Isar  branches 
off  in  different  directions,  the  water  rushed  with  a  rapidity 
I  have  never  seen  equaled  in  any  garden  :  "  Away,  away ! " 
was  its  cry. 

Even  the  streets  and  buildings  in  this  new  city  will  not, 
as  yet,  attach  themselves  to  each  other  ;  the  Pinakothek,  with 
its  elevated  windows  in  the  roof,  has,  from  the  spot  on  which 
I  am  standing,  the  appearance  of  a  large  hot-house  or  con- 
servatory, and  such  it  is ;  there,  as  in  the  Glyptothek,  we 
wander  amongst  the  most  beautiful  productions  of  art,  brought 
together  from  the  four  corners  of  the  world.  In  the  Pina- 
kothek are  all  the  varieties  of  glowing  plants,  and  the  saloons 
are  equally  as  gorgeous  as  the  flowers  ;  in  the  Glyptothek 
stand  the  immortal  figures  by  Scopas,  Thorwaldsen,  and  Ca- 
nova,  and  the  walls  are  resplendent  with  colors  that  will 
tell  posterity  of  Cornelius,  Zimmerman,  and  Schlolthauer. 

Near  to  Konigsbau  is  the  theatre  ;  it  is  even  joined  to  it 


MUNICH.  29 

by  a  small  building.  It  is  built  on  a  very  extended  scale; 
the  machinery  is  admirable,  and  the  decorations  are  splendid. 
But  a  bad  custom  exists  here,  that  of  destroying  all  the  illusion 
by  calling  the  actors  forward.  I  never  saw  displayed  a  more 
flagrant  instance  of  bad  taste,  than  one  evening  during  the 
performance  of  the  opera  of  "  Guido  and  Ginevra  ;  or,  the 
Plague  in  Florence."  In  the  fourth  act  of  the  piece  the  scene 
is  divided  in  two  parts  :  the  lower  part  represents  a  vault, 
wherein  Ginevra  lies  in  her  coffin,  having,  as  is  supposed, 
died  of  the  plague  ;  the  upper  part  of  the  scene  represents 
the  church,  where  they  are  singing  masses  over  her  tomb  for 
the  repose  of  her  soul.  The  mourners  depart,  the  church  is 
dark  and  empty  ;  it  is  late  in  the  night :  Ginevra's  trance  is 
ended,  she  awakes  and  soon  comprehends  her  dreadful  sit- 
uation— she  is  buried  alive.  The  music  in  this  scene  is 
highly  expressive  and  effective  ;  with  the  greatest  effort  she 
drags  herself  up  the  stairs  which  lead  to  the  church  ;  but  the 
trap-door  is  fastened,  she  has  not  strength  to  raise  it,  and 
despairs.  At  that  moment  a  crowd  of  sacrilegious  robbers 
enter,  for  the  plague  rages  in  that  large  city,  and  all  law,  all 
affection  and  piety  are  annihilated  ;  they  even  plunder  the  dead. 
They  force  their  way  into  Ginevra's  tomb,  but  are  seized 
with  horror  on  beholding  the  supposed  corpse  standing  in 
the  midst  of  them  ;  they  kneel,  and  she  once  more  attempts 
to  ascend  the  stairs,  and  escape  through  the  trap-door  which 
the  robbers  had  opened.  She  succeeds ;  she  stands  in  the 
church,  and  exclaims  :  "  I  am  saved  ! "  and  then  leaves  the 
stage. 

The  lady  performed  very  naturally,  sang  prettily,  and  the 
music  is,  as  I  have  said,  in  the  highest  degree  expressive ; 
but  now  the  spectators  began  to  shout  and  call  her  forward. 
Ginevra  appeared  again,  and  in  order  to  express  her  thanks 
properly,  she  ran  with  marvelous  ease  through  the  church, 
down  the  stairs  into  the  vault,  toward  the  lamps,  made  her 
x>urtsey  with  the  happiest  face  imaginable,  and  then  hopped 
iway  back  the  same  way  she  came,  and  where  a  minute 
»efor»  we  saw  her,  as  if  half  dead,  dragging  herself  forward. 
For  me,  at  least,  the  whole  effect  of  that  beautiful  scene  was 
from  that  moment  destroyed.  As  to  the  rest,  the  plays 
performed  here  are  good  and  interesting. 


3O  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

But  I  will  now  turn  to  the  glorification  of  art  in  the  cap- 
ital of  Bavaria,  and  the  names  of  Cornelius  and  Kaulbach 
stand  preeminent.  I  will  first  speak  of  the  younger  of  the  two, 
Kaulbach.  Every  one  who  has  lately  been  in  Berlin,  assuredly 
knows  his  famous  painting,  "  Die  Hunnenschlacht"  I  have 
heard  several  artists,  though  it  is  true  they  were  persons  who, 
according  to  my  opinion,  have  not  produced  anything  great, 
judge  him  very  harshly,  and  describe  him  as  proud  and  re- 
pulsive ;  I  nevertheless  determined  to  pay  a  visit  to  his 
atelier.  I  wished  to  see  the  man  and  his  latest  work,  "  The 
Destruction  of  Jerusalem,"  of  which  every  one  spoke  differ- 
ently. Without  any  sort  of  letter  of  introduction,  I  set  out  for 
his  atelier,  which  is  situated  in  a  remote  part  of  the  town  near 
the  river  Isar.  Passing  over  a  little  meadow  inclosed  with 
palings,  I  entered  the  foremost  atelier.  The  first  object  that 
revealed  itself  to  me  was  a  living  and  very  original  picture, 
such  as  I  had  never  before  seen :  a  young  girl,  a  model,  lay 
in  a  sleeping  position  ;  a  number  of  young  artists  stood  around 
her,  one  occupied  with  drawing,  another  playing  the  guitar 
and  singing  "  Ora  pro  nobis,"  whilst  a  third  had  opened  a 
bottle  of  champagne  just  as  I  entered. 

I  asked  for  Kaulbach,  and  they  showed  me  into  a  larger 
room  close  by,  where  the  artist  received  me.  Kaulbach  is 
a  young  man,  with  an  ingenuous  face  ;  he  is  pale,  and  his 
features  indicate  suffering  j  but  there  lies  a  soul  in  those 
proud  eyes,  a  cordiality,  like  that  with  which  he  received  me, 
when  I  told  him  I  was  a  stranger  who  had  no  one  to  introduce 
me  to  him,  and  therefore  was  obliged  to  present  myself,  and 
that  I  could  not  leave  Munich  without  having  seen  his  works. 
He  asked  my  name,  and  when  I  told  him,  I  was  no  longer  a 
stranger;  he  shook  my  hand,  bade  me  welcome,  and  a  few 
minutes  afterward  we  were  like  old  friends.  How  much  envy 
and  folly  was  there  in  the  judgment  I  had  heard  pronounced 
against  this  great  artist !  He  led  me  toward  the  cartoon 
for  his  last  great  picture,  which  is  already  renowned,  "  The 
Destruction  of  Jerusalem."  This  was  the  first  time  during 
my  journey,  the  first  time  during  my  stay  in  Munich  that  I 
felt  glad,  charmed,  and  filled  with  great  and  powerful  thoughts, 
and  it  was  this  picture  that  had  cast  such  a  ray  of  sunlight 


MUNICH.  3 1 

over  my  mind  !  All  that  I  had  lately  seen  and  found  beautiful 
in  the  ateliers  of  other  young  artists,  now  appeared  to  me  as 
sketches  in  comparison  with  this  work.  My  feeling  was  akin 
to  that  a  young  man  of  susceptible  imagination  must  expe- 
rience, when  having  read  some  trifling  plays,  poems,  or  every- 
day novels,  he  turns  to  the  perusal  of  Dante's  "  Divina  Corn- 
media,"  or  Goethe's  "  Faust."  There  is  something  so  great  in 
these,  that  other  productions,  however  finished  they  may  be  of 
their  kind,  under  such  circumstances  would  appear  so  inferior, 
that  they  would  suddenly  lose  all  the  effect  they  in  the  first 
instance  created.  And  yet  it  was  only  in  the  cartoon,  and 
in  miniature,  that  I  saw  this  work  of  Kaulbach,  which  will 
assuredly  forthwith  take  its  place  in  the  works  of  art  —  a 
place  such  as  the  world  has  long  ago  consented  to  concede 
to  Michael  Angelo's  "  Day  of  Judgment." 

The  destruction  of  Jerusalem  is  dealt  with  in  this  picture 
as  an  epoch  in  the  history  of  the  world,  as  a  circumstance  of 
more  than  a  general  historic  character.  Thus  Kaulbach  has 
comprehended  it  and  represented  it,  for  he  has  gathered  his 
materials  from  the  prophets  and  Josephus. 

At  the  top  of  the  picture  we  see,  in  the  clouds,  the  figures 
of  Isaiah,  Jeremiah,  Ezekiel,  and  Daniel,  surrounded  by  a 
glory ;  they  prophesy  the  fall  of  Jerusalem,  and  show  the  peo- 
ple what  is  written  in  the  Scriptures  ;  under  the  prophets  are 
seen  soaring  the  seven  chastising  angels,  as  executors  of  God's 
anger.  We  see  the  Jewish  people's  misery :  the  temple  is  in 
flames ;  the  city  is  taken ;  the  Romans  plant  their  eagles 
around  the  holy  altar,  whilst  Titus  with  the  lictors  enter  over 
the  fallen  walls.  In  the  foreground  of  the  picture  is  seen  the 
high-priest  of  the  temple,  who  kills  himself  and  his  family  on 
the  fall  of  the  sanctuary ;  at  his  feet  are  the  Levites,  sitting 
and  lying,  with  their  harps  —  the  same  that  sounded  by  the 
waters  of  Babylon  when  the  thought  of  Zion  still  lived ;  but 
they  are  now  silent,  for  all  is  lost. 

To  the  right  of  the  picture,  a  Christian  family  is  leaving  the 
city  accompanied  by  two  angels  ;  the  waving  palm-branches 
signify  martyrdom  ;  to  the  left  is  seen  the  Wandering  Jew, 
chased  out  of  the  city  by  three  demons  ;  he  is  the  representa- 
tive of  the  present  Judaism  —  a  people  without  home. 


32  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

It  is  long  since  that  a  picture  has  made  me  thrill,  and  filled 
me  with  such  thoughts  as  this  picture  gave  me.  The  art- 
ist went  through  every  particular ;  showed  me  the  detached 
studies :  each  in  itself  was  a  beautifully  executed  picture. 
Afterward  I  saw  the  sketch  of  his  famed  "  Hunnenschlacht ;  " 
how  these  giant  spirits  soar!  how  nobly  Attila  rises,  borne 
on  shields  through  the  air  !  I  saw  the  drawings  for  Goethe's 
"  Faust,"  and  left  the  friendly  artist  with  a  high  admiration  of 
his  talents,  and  a  warm  regard  for  his  social  qualities. 

One  of  the  greatest  works  that  Munich  may  be  proud  of 
from  the  hand  of  Cornelius,  is  certainly  his  "  Day  of  Judg- 
ment," which  is  reposited  in  Ludwig's  church.  Six  years  ago 
I  saw  the  cartoon  to  this  picture  in  Rome,  where  I  made  the 
acquaintance  of  this  great  artist.  It  was  two  evenings  before 
my  departure  for  Naples  that  I  was  in  the  hostelry  by  the 
Piazza  Barberini,  and  there  met,  amongst  the  Danes  who 
were  assembled,  a  German  whom  I  had  not  seen  before.  He 
had  piercing,  intelligent  eyes,  was  very  eloquent,  and  ertered 
into  conversation  with  me  about  the  newest  German  literature. 
We  talked  long  together,  and  when  he  rose  to  depart,  two  of 
my  countrymen  asked  him  if  they  might  visit  his  atelier  next 
day,  and  see  the  cartoon  for  his  latest  work. 

"  I  do  not  much  like  it  to  be  seen  by  many,"  answered  he  ; 
"  but  you  may  come,  on  condition  that  you  bring  this  gentle- 
man with  you  as  a  card  of  admission,"  and  he  pointed  to  me. 

No  one  had  told  me  who  it  was  I  had  been  conversing 
with  ;  I  only  heard  that  he  was  a  painter,  and  of  painters 
there  are  plenty  in  Rome.  I  therefore  thanked  the  gentle- 
man for  his  invitation,  but  said  that  I  regretted  I  could  not 
accept  it,  as  I  intended  to  leave  Rome  the  following  day,  and 
being  scant  of  time,  I  wished  once  more  to  visit  the  Borghese 
gallery. 

"  You  will  come !  "  said  he  with  a  smile,  as  he  laid  his  hand 
on  my  shoulder,  and  went  hastily  away. 

He  was  scarcely  out  of  the  door,  before  some  of  my  coun- 
trymen began  to  load  me  with  abuse  for  what  they  called  my 
unheard  of  incivility  in  refusing  an  invitation  from — Corne- 
lius ;  I  must  have  seen  who  he  was  in  his  eyes,  and  in  bis 
whole  person,  said  they ! 


MUNICH.  23 

Now,  I  had  not  these  qualities  of  discernment.  However, 
I  went  with  the  others  to  visit  him  next  day.  He  received 
me  with  a  smile,  and  added :  "  Did  I  not  say  you  would 
come  !  "  '  He  then  showed  us  the  cartoon  to  that  now  famous 
painting,  "  The  Day  of  Judgment."  Our  personal  acquaint- 
ance was  but  transient ;  it  was  in  Munich  first  that  I  had  occa- 
sion to  value  the  worthy  man,  and  to  meet  with  friendship  and 
cordiality  from  the  great  artist. 

Of  small  events,  of  which  every  man  has  always  some  to 
record  if  he  stay  in  a  strange  town  for  a  few  weeks,  I  will 
mention  one  :  on  walking  through  the  streets  of  Munich,  a 
book-seller's  shop  attracted  me,  where  I  saw  amongst  the  books 
exhibited  in  the  window  a  German  translation  of  my  novel 
"  The  Improvisatore,"  included  in  "  Miniaturbibliothek  der 
auslandischen  Classiker."  I  walked  in,  and  asked  for  the 
book  ;  a  young  man  delivered  me  a  little  volume  which  com- 
prised the  first  part. 

"  But  I  wish  to  have  the  whole  novel !  "  said  I. 

"  That  is  the  whole  !  "  he  replied ;  "  there  are  no  more  parts. 
I  have  read  it  myself,  sir ! " 

"  Do  you  not  find,  then,"  I  inquired,  "  that  it  ends  rather 
abruptly ;  that  we  do  not  come  to  any  conclusion  ?  " 

"  O  yes  !  "  said  he,  "  but  it  is  in  that  as  in  the  French  nov- 
els !  The  author  points  out  a  conclusion,  and  leaves  it  to  the 
reader  to  finish  the  picture  for  himself." 

"  It  is  not  the  case  here,"  I  exclaimed ;  "  this  is  only  the 
first  part  of  the  work  that  you  have  given  me  !  " 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  he,  half  angrily,  "  I  have  read  it !  " 

"  But  I  have  written  it !  "  I  replied. 

The  man  looked  at  me  from  top  to  toe ;  he  did  not  conira 
dict  me,  but  I  could  see  in  his  face  that  he  did  not  beliere 
me. 

On  one  of  the  last  evenings  of  my  stay  here,  I  knew  that 
at  home  in  Denmark,  in  that  house  where  I  am  regarded  as  a 
son  and  brother,  there  was  a  marriage  feast.  It  was  late  as  I 
proceeded  along  the  banks  of  the  river  Isar ;  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river  was  a  crowd  of  merry  young  men ;  they  had  a 
lighted  torch  before  them,  and  the  red  flame  trembled  on  the 
surface  of  the  water.  As  they  went  on,  they  sang  some  lively 
3 


34  *   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

German  songs,  whilst  the  stars  glistened  between  the  bare 
branches  of  the  trees ;  there  was  also  song  and  torch-light 
in  my  heart  The  carrier-dove  will  fly  with  my  song  to  the 
North,  to  my  home  of  homes,  when  I  fly  over  to  the  Alps. 

At  home  thou  sittest,  sad  with  joyful  face, 

Dressed  in  thy  wedding  gown, 
And  a  stranger  I,  in  a  foreign  place, 

Am  seeing  the  sights  of  the  town. 
At  the  altar  ye  stand  —  he  takes  thy  hand, 
Here's  a  song  for  you  from  the  company  gay  ; 

There's  the  clinking  of  glasses 

And  the  singing  of  lasses  ; 
But  I  —  for  you  I'll  pray. 

When  in  the  home  I've  left  behind 

Again  shall  I  see  thee  ? 
A  sister  to  me,  gentle  and  kind  — 

Let  God's  will  be  ! 

To-morrow  I  go  o'er  the  Alpine  snow, 
I'll  think  of  you,  where  the  roses  stay, 

Of  you,  with  your  words  of  worth, 

Of  you,  with  your  dreams  in  the  North, 
And  then  —  for  you  I'll  pray. 


XL 

TYROL. 

ALL  the  mountains  were  covered  with  snow;  the  dark 
pines  were  as  if  powdered  over ;  to  the  left  a  dark  va- 
cant stripe  indicated  the  deep  bed  of  the  river  Inn.  From 
thence  came  clouds  of  exhalations ;  they  rolled  forward  like 
mists,  and,  driven  by  the  wind,  they  sometimes  concealed,  and 
sometimes  disclosed  the  sides  of  the  snow-covered  mountains 
and  firs. 

The  soldiers  on  the  frontiers,  in  their  large  gray  cloaks, 
clumsy  woolen  gloves,  and  muskets  over  their  shoulders,  met 
us  in  the  fresh  cold  morning. 

We  had  left  Seerfeldt,  and  were  now  on  the  highest  point  of 
the  mountain  ;  we  saw  the  whole  valley  of  the  Inn,  far,  far  below 
us.  The  gardens  and  fields  looked  like  the  beds  in  a  kitchen 


TYROL.  35 

garden  :  the  river  Inn  itself  appeared  to  be  a  small  kennel. 
Close  to  us,  ruins  round  about,  clouds  and  mountains,  with 
sunshine  and  long  intense  shadows  ;  no,  such  things  cannot 
be  minutely  drawn,  and  it  is  just  that  circumstance  which  gives 
them  their  greatest  charm. 

Beyond  the  confines  of  reality  this  greatness  can  only  reveal 
itself  in  remembrance,  to  the  Tyrolese  himself,  when  he,  far 
away  from  his  home  in  flat  foreign  lands,  sings  his  simple  me- 
lodious songs :  yet  there  is  one  thing  he  misses,  one  thing  that 
remembrance  cannot  restore,  —  it  is  that  deep  silence,  that 
death-like  stillness,  which  is  increased  by  the  monotonous 
creaking  of  the  wheels  in  the  snow,  and  by  the  screams  of  the 
birds  of  prey. 

Several  years  ago,  when  on  my  travels  from  Italy,  I  passed 
the  same  way  and  stayed  some  days  at  Innspruck.  I  made 
several  tours  in  the  mountains  with  a  young  Scotchman.  He 
found  much  resemblance  between  nature  here  and  at  his  home 
near  Edinburgh.  The  children  playing  before  the  cottages, 
the  springs  that  flow  forth  everywhere,  the  sound  of  bells 
around  the  necks  of  the  cattle,  all  reminded  him  of  home ; 
he  became  quite  melancholy.  And  when  I,  in  order  to  make 
the  illusion  stronger,  began  to  sing  a  well  known  Scotch  mel- 
ody, he  burst  into  tears  and  became  ill :  we  were  obliged  to 
sit  down,  and  strange  enough,  on  looking  round  I  saw  on  a 
solitary  spot  between  the  bare  cliffs  a  wooden  monument  on 
which  some  Hebrew  letters  were  painted.  I  asked  a  herds- 
man who  passed  us  what  was  the  meaning  of  it ;  and  he  told 
us  that  a  Jew  was  buried  there,  that  they  had  no  church-yard 
for  that  sort  of  people,  and  therefore  they  had  laid  him  there 
in  the  mountains ;  but  one  of  his  creed,  who  travelled  with 
him,  had  placed  this  monument  there.  This  account  set  my 
fancy  in  as  great  emotion  as  the  Scotchman's  feelings  had 
been  on  beholding  the  scenery,  and  yet  I  quite  forgot  this  in- 
cident, which,  like  a  fragrant  flower,  full  of  poesy,  shot  forth  in 
a  moment !  I  had  remembered  a  hundred  other  insignificant 
things,  but  not  this  ;  and  now  on  seeing  Innspruck  suddenly 
before  me,  on  passing  over  that  little  mountain  road  I  went 
up,  and  where  the  many  springs  still  splashed,  as  on  that  even- 
Ing,  my  thoughts  were  again  call  A  to  life  ;  it  was  as  if  the 


36  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

waters  asked,  "  Do  you  remember  it  ?  "  It  appeared  to  me  as 
if  but  a  few  hours  had  passed  since  I  was  here,  and  I  became 
thoughtful,  and  with  good  reason.  How  many  reminiscences 
do  there  not  slumber  in  our  minds,  how  much  that  we  would 
gladly  have  forgotten  ;  if  now,  at  once,  all  these  remembrances 
awake  !  —  I  thought  of  the  words  of  Scripture,  "  We  shall  give 
account  for  every  idle  word  we  have  spoken  ! "  We  shall  re- 
remember  them  I  I  believe  that  the  mind  forgets  nothing ; 
everything  can  be  again  awakened,  as  fresh  and  living  as  in 
the  moment  it  happened.  Our  thoughts,  words,  and  actions 
are  bulbs  and  roots  we  plant  in  the  earth,  and  much  of  them 
we  remember  full  well ;  but  when  we  come  to  the  end,  we 
turn  round,  and  then  see  the  whole  in  its  bloom,  and  it  is  par- 
adise or  hell  that  we  recognize  and  own. 

Shall  I  draw  Innspruck  ?  Then  I  must  first  show  you  a  roar- 
ing stream,  with  many  timber  rafts  steered  by  two  or  three 
men ;  I  must  describe  strong  wooden  bridges,  and  crooked 
streets  with  shops  in  the  heavy-built  arcades ;  but  one  of  the 
streets  must  be  broad  and  showy,  the  sun  must  shine  on  the 
altars  there,  and  on  the  gilded  moon  which  bears  the  Ma- 
donna. Life  and  bustle  must  be  shown,  Tyrolese  women 
with  clumsy  caps,  slender  Austrian  officers,  and  travellers, 
with  book  in  hand,  must  cross  each  other,  and  then  we  have 
the  picture  of  the  town ;  but  the  frame  is  of  a  greater  style, 
and  gives  relief  to  the  picture ;  the  frame  is  composed  of 
the  high  mountains  :  they  seem  to  be  threatening  thunder- 
clouds that  will  pass  over  us. 

I  soon  found  the  same  walk  I  had  visited  with  the  Scotch- 
man ;  the  river  Inn  rushed  on  unchanged,  the  timber  rafts 
glided  under  the  strong  bridges  down  the  stream  just  as 
before.  I  went  up  the  road  where  all  the  springs  gush  forth, 
where  all  the  houses  boast  of  a  large  image  of  the  Madonna,  — 
the  one  copied  exactly  from  the  other,  the  clothes  of  the  same 
color,  the  same  position  for  the  mother  as  for  the  child  ; 
over  the  wall  and  quite  over  the  windows,  where  they  only 
left  a  little  space  open,  hung,  like  a  large  carpet,  the  yellow 
maize  to  ripen  in  the  sun ;  merry  children  played  in  the 
streets :  everything  was  as  before.  I  followed  the  path,  and 
tood  amongst  the  silent  rocks,  where  I  had  seen  the  mon 


TYROL.  37 

nment  with  the  Hebraic  epitaph,  and  I  saw  a  part  of  it  still, 
but  only  a  part ;  a  piece  of  the  plank  lay  in  the  grass  with 
half  worn-out  Hebrew  letters  ;  high  grass  shot  up  over  the 
pile  which  had  borne  it.  I  sang  my  Scotch  song  again,  and 
looked  at  the  scenery  around  ;  that  and  the  song  were  un- 
changed. I  thought  of  my  Scotch  friend  who  is  now  perhaps 
the  father  of  a  family,  and  who  was  possibly  at  that  mo- 
ment seated  in  his  soft  arm-chair,  asleep  after  a  good  meal, 
perhaps  dreaming  of  one  or  another  thing  he  had  seen  ; 
perhaps  dreaming  of  this  place,  and  in  his  dream  seeing  the 
town,  the  river,  and  the  mountains  just  as  clearly  as  I  saw 
it,  for  the  mind  can  retrace  even  the  smallest  details  ;  dream- 
ing that  I  sang  the  Scotch  song  for  him  on  this  place.  He 
awakes,  looks  up,  and  says,  "  I  had  quite  forgotten  that ; 
how  one  can  dream  !  "  and  so  the  dream  was  perfect  reality, 
for  I  stood  again  by  the  grave,  and  sang  the  Scotch  melody. 

The  bright  brass  balls  on  the  high  church  towers  in  the 
town  shone  in  the  evening  sunlight.  I  returned  thither :  the 
palace  church  stood  open,  as  is  the  custom  in  Catholic  coun- 
tries ;  the  light  fell  with  a  red  tint  through  the  large  window- 
panes.  From  the  entrance  and  up  to  the  choir,  stand  co- 
lossal figures  in  bronze  of  the  German  emperors  and  em- 
presses, all  undoubtedly  cast  at  the  same  time  and  by  the 
same  master ;  but  although  they  scarcely  belong  to  works 
of  art,  yet  they  give  the  church  a  peculiar  stamp  ;  it  seems 
like  an  open  book  of  legends,  which  speaks  of  the  days  of 
chivalry ;  even  that  white  monument  in  the  aisle  to  the  left 
harmonizes  well,  if  not  as  a  part  of  the  picture,  yet  like 
a  fresh  flower  laid  in  the  book,  as  a  scented  mark.  It  is 
an  Alpine  plant  which  tells  of  the  strong  mountains,  of  love 
for  home  here,  of  fidelity  toward  its  land's  Emperor,  —  it 
is  the  monument  of  Andreas  Hofer.  With  the  flag  in  his 
hand  and  his  eyes  toward  heaven,  the  brave  Tyrolese  seems 
to  advance  to  combat  for  his  mountains,  his  hearth,  and  the 
Emperor  Francis.  From  Innspruck  the  way  passes  over 
Brenner  to  Italy. 

It  was  toward  evening  on  the  fourth  of  December,  1840,  that 
I  drove  up  the  mountain  in  the  diligence,  well  wrapped  up 
in  cloaks,  with  Iceland  stockings  up  over  the  knees,  for  they 


38  A    POET'S  BAZAAR. 

had  warned  me  that  it  was  cold  up  there,  and  perhaps  the 
snow  lay  so  high  that  we  should  have  to  cut  our  way  through. 
I  knew  it  was  the  worst  season  of  the  year,  but  over  it  we 
must  go.  The  road  winds  constantly  in  a  zigzag  upward, 
and  we  went  very  slowly.  The  view  behind  is  immense,  and 
becomes  more  impressive  every  step  we  go  forward.  The  air 
was  quite  of  a  rose  red  ;  the  mountains  with  the  snow  looked 
like  a  shining  silver  cloud,  and  as  the  red  light  disappeared 
in  the  air  and  it  became  more  and  more  of  a  pure  blue, 
night  lay  in  the  valley  ;  the  lights  twinkled  in  the  town,  which 
appeared  to  us  like  a  starry  firmament  beneath  us.  The 
evening  was  so  still  we  heard  the  snow  creak  under  the  wheels. 
The  moon,  which  was  only  in  the  first  quarter,  shone  clear 
enough  to  illumine  all  the  surrounding  objects  in  the  white 
snow  without  depriving  us  of  the  sight  of  the  many  stars ; 
sometimes  we  saw  one  of  them,  so  large  and  glittering, 
close  by  the  mountain  summit,  that  it  appeared  as  if  it  were 
a  fire. 

The  wheel-ruts  passed  close  to  the  giddy  precipice  where 
there  are  no  railings  —  where  there  is  nothing,  except  here 
and  there  a  mighty  pine  which  holds  itself  fast  by  the  roots  to 
the  declivity  :  it  appeared  a  fathomless  abyss  in  the  moonlight 
What  stillness !  only  the  sound  of  a  rivulet  was  to  be  heard  ! 
We  met  not  a  single  wanderer  ;  not  a  bird  flew  past  us  ;  and  it 
soon  became  so  cold  that  the  windows  of  the  diligence  were 
covered  with  icy  flowers,  and  we  saw  but  the  rays  of  the  moon 
refracted  from  the  edge  of  the  flowers.  We  stopped  at  Stein- 
ach,  where  we  flocked  round  a  stove  with  a  brass  ball  on  the 
top,  and  refreshed  ourselves  with  a  frugal  Friday's  meal,  whilst 
the  coachman  filled  the  diligence  with  hay  to  keep  our  feet 
warm.  There  was  not  much  snow  lying  there,  but  it  was  bit- 
ter cold.  Just  at  twelve  o'clock  we  passed  Brenner,  the  high- 
est point,  and  though  the  cold  was  the  same,  yet  we  felt  it  less, 
for  we  sat  with  our  feet  in  the  warm  hay  and  with  our  thoughts 
in  Italy,  toward  which  we  were  now  advancing.  The  frozen 
window-panes  began  to  melt,  the  sun  burst  forth,  the  green  firs 
became  more  and  more  numerous,  the  snow  was  less.  "  We 
approach  Italy,  "  said  we  ;  and  yet  the  postilion  was  so  fro- 
zen that  his  cheeks  and  nose  were  of  the  same  color  as  the 
mornincf  HouHs. 


TYROL. 


39 


The  road  runs  continually  along  the  side  of  the  roaring 
river  ;  the  cliffs  around  are  not  high,  and  have  a  strange  moul- 
dering appearance  :  they  look  like  slates  with  half  obliterated 
Runic  inscriptions  and  hieroglyphics  ;  they  often  form  large 
walls  which  seem  to  support  the  remains  of  old  monuments, 
decayed  and  beaten  by  rain  and  storm.  During  several  hours' 
driving  they  had  always  the  same  formation  ;  it  really  ap- 
peared as  if  one  were  in  a  large  cemetery  for  the  whole  race  of 
Adam :  the  still-born  child,  the  most  wretched  beggar,  each 
had  his  monument ;  all  generations,  all  ages  had  theirs ;  the 
grave-stones  there  stood  strangely  cast  amongst  each  other : 
the  green  bush  shooting  forth  from  the  rocky  wall  formed  a 
striking  resemblance  to  the  feathery  tuft  in  a  knight's  helmet, 
as  the  weather-beaten  cliff  resembled  him  ;  here  stood  a  knight 
in  armor  amongst  deformed  dwarfs,  who  all  wore  ruffs :  they 
could  not  be  better  represented  than  here.  In  centuries  to 
come  these  images  will  also  decay;  but  new  ones  will  be 
formed  again,  another  church-yard's  monuments  for  another 
thousand  years'  dead,  —  and  the  river  will  rush  on  below, 
and  hum  the  same  death-hymn. 

Toward  noon  we  were  in  Botzen  ;  some  of  the  trees  had 
leaves ;  the  red  vine  leaf  hung  yet  on  the  stem ;  beautiful 
white  oxen  dfew  the  peasants'  wagons  ;  the  church-yard  had 
painted  arcades ;  in  the  inn  there  was  as  much  Italian  spoken 
as  German,  and  on  the  table  lay  a  play-bill  on  which  we  read 
in  large  letters  :  "  Lucia  di  Lammermoor,  tragedia  lirica :  * 
we  were  near  Italy,  although  yet  on  German  ground. 


ITALY. 

I. 

ENTRANCE   INTO   ITALY. 
TRAVELLING  SKETCHES. 


PASSING  over  the  Alps  we  come  into  a  land  where  th« 
winter  is  like  a  fine  autumn  day  in  the  North  ;  once 
at  least  it  was  so  to  me.  Six  years  had  elapsed  since  I  had 
left  Italy ;  I  was  now  here  again,  and  in  the  first  hostelry  on 
Italian  ground  I  had  determined  to  empty  the  cup  of  wel- 
come ;  but  the  diligence  drove  past  the  first,  the  second,  and 
the  third,  for  the  conductor  slept,  and  we  certainly  acted  wisely 
in  following  his  example.  I  peeped  at  the  blue  sky,  and  let 
down  the  carriage  window  to  drink  health  in  the  fresh  air. 
But  our  signors  screamed  aloud  at  this  intrusion  of  the  cold 
air,  and  so  I  only  got  a  sniff  of  it. 

It  was  not  yet  daylight  when  we  reached  Verona.  The 
Hotel  della  Posta  is  a  cold,  uncomfortable  place.  I  was 
shown  into  a  paved  room,  where  there  were  three  immeasur- 
ably large  bedsteads  ;  a  few  dried  sticks  furnished  a  flame 
in  the  chimney ;  but  the  fire  was  a  sort  of  fascination,  it  did 
not  afford  the  least  warmth ;  so  I  went  to  bed  and  slept  — 
slept  until  the  sun  shone  through  the  windows.  I  arose  and 
drank  of  its  beams,  and  in  reality  this  was  the  most  precious 
draught  that  Italy  could  give !  But  I  wished  to  have  more 
sun  ;  I  went  out,  therefore,  and  as  I  got  more,  I  wished  to 
have  it  still  warmer.  It  is  the  same  with  sun-drinkers  as 
with  other  drinkers,  they  will  always  have  more  and  always 
stronger. 

The  sun  shone  on  the  magnificent  marble  tombs  of  the 
Scaligii,  on  the  sarcophagus  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  on  the 


ENTRANCE  INTO  ITALY.  41 

great  Amphitheatre.  I  saw  them  all  together;  but  the  sun 
of  Italy  did  not  yet  shine  in  my  heart  with  that  lustre  which 
all  the  pictures  of  memory  do. 

We  ascended  the  citadel  to  enjoy  the  splendid  view  over 
the  old  city  and  the  murmuring  river,  and  it  was  here  that 
Italy  first  revealed  itself.  Yes,  you  will  laugh  at  this  reve- 
lation, but  it  is  truth  :  the  whole  space  of  ground  where  this 
revelation  took  place  was  only  some  few  yards  ;  it  was  in  a 
long  green  salad  bed,  —  only  green  salad,  but  it  was  in  the 
open  air  in  a  strong  sunlight,  and  the  warm  beams  of  the  sun 
were  reflected  from  an  old  wall  quite  overgrown  with  ivy.  It 
was  green  here,  it  was  warm  here,  and  yet  it  was  the  seventh 
of  December. 

That  poor  green  salad,  in  the  open  air,  in  sunshine  ar.d 
shade,  was  like  the  drapery  of  that  throne  from  which  the  maj- 
esty of  Italy  greeted  me  and  cried  :  "  Welcome  !  " 

II. 

They  spoke  of  nought  but  war,  —  the  expected  war  which 
France  was  soon  to  carry  on  against  Germany.  On  the  road 
there  was  bustle  and  movement,  but  this  also  was  a  sign  of 
war ;  one  baggage  wagon  followed  the  other  with  ammunition, 
accompanied  by  Austrian  cavalry,  all,  like  ourselves,  going 
towards  Mantua,  that  famous  large  fortress. 

"  I  shall  return  in  eight  months,"  said  a  German  who  sat 
in  the  same  carriage  with  me  ;  "just  the  same  way  back  !  It 
appears  very  consoling.  How  is  one  to  slip  through  the 
enemy's  ranks  ?  " 

"  I  live  here  on  the  plain,  in  the  little  town  of  Villafranca," 
sighed  a  lady ;  "  there  we  are  but  a  few  hours'  ride  from 
Mantua.  We  may  expect  dreadful  times." 

I  became  serious ;  yet  in  the  great  events  of  life,  where  I 
cannot  do  anything  myself,  I  have  the  same  firm  belief  as  the 
Turks  in  a  directing  Providence  ;  I  know  that  what  will  hap- 
pen, happens !  Here  my  thoughts  turned  to  my  friends  at 
home  ;  the  best  hopes  arose  in  my  mind. 

It  was  evening,  the  air  was  clear  and  blue,  the  moon  shone  , 
>t  was  so  still,  just  as  on  a  fine  autumn  evening  in  Denmark. 


42  A  POETS  BAZAAR. 

Mantua  lay  before  us.  They  said  it  was  Mantua,  and  I  was 
quite  in  Denmark,  not  only  in  thoughts  but  in  the  surround- 
ing scenery.  I  saw  a  large  clear  lake,  which  in  the  moon- 
light seemed  inclosed  by  woods  that  assumed  a  peculiar  blue- 
ness  ;  the  large  plain  of  Lombardy,  the  lake  and  the  woods, 
which  in  fact  existed  not,  but  appeared  to  exist,  suddenly  re- 
called me  to  my  home :  tears  came  to  my  eyes,  —  call  it  not 
home-sickness,  for  I  was  at  home. 

They  say  that  sorrow  gets  up  behind  a  man  and  rides  with 
him :  I  believe  it ;  but  memory  does  the  same,  and  sits  faster. 
Memory  rode  its  hobby  on  my  knee,  and  laid  its  head  against 
my  heart 

"  Do  you  remember,"  it  sang,  "  the  large  calm  lakes  inclosed 
by  fragrant  beech  woods  ?  Do  you  remember  the  little  path 
between  the  wild  roses  and  the  high  brackens  ?  The  rays  of  the 
evening  sun  played  between  the  branches  of  the  trees,  and 
made  the  leaves  transparent.  Near  the  lake  lies  an  old  castle 
with  a  pointed  roof,  and  the  stork  has  its  nest  up  there  ;  it  is 
beautiful  in  Denmark  !  " 

"  Do  you  remember  the  brown,  sweet  smelling  clover-field, 
with  its  old  tumulus  grown  over  with  brambles  and  black- 
thorn ?  The  stones  in  the  burial-chamber  shine  like  copper 
when  the  sun  throws  his  red  gleams  within.  Do  you  remember 
the  green  meadow  where  the  hay  stands  in  stacks,  and  spreads 
a  sweet  perfume  in  the  calm  air  ?  The  full  moon  shines,  the 
husbandmen  and  girls  go  singing  home,  with  glittering  scythes. 
Do  you  remember  the  sea,  the  swelling  sea,  the  calm  sea? 
Yes,  it  is  beautiful  in  Denmark  !  " 

And  we  rolled  into  Mantua,  —  rolled  in  over  an  immense 
draw-bridge !  The  wheels  of  the  water-mills  roared  and 
foamed  outside  —  and  so  we  were  in  the  streets  of  Mantua. 


III. 

t 

It  was  the  feast  of  the  Madonna ;  the  magnificent  church 
shone  with  light,  the  figures  in  the  cupola  appeared  living  — 
they  soared  !  It  was  as  if  one  had  cast  a  look  into  heaven  it- 
self: the  smell  of  incense  filled  the  aisles  of  the  church  ;  song 
and  music  sounded  so  exquisitely  beautiful ;  they  breathed  forth 


ENTRANCE  INTO  ITALY.  43 

a  gladness  which  we  inhabitants  of  the  North  cannot  Imagine 
in  a  church ;  and  yet,  when  we  hear  it  there  in  the  South,  and 
see  the  devout  crowd  kneeling,  we  feel  ourselves  elevated  by 
joy! 

From  the  church,  the  crowd  streamed  forth  into  the  large 
open  square,  and  just  before  it  stood  a  little  puppet  show. 
The*  puppets  knocked  their  heads  against  each  other,  and 
fought  with  their  large  arms.  The  dialogue  was  applauded. 
It  was  now  all  life  and  mirth. 

People  wandered  up  and  down  under  the  high  piazzas  ; 
song  and  music  sounded  from  the  open  cafes  ;  I  took  a  seat 
in  one,  where  a  musical  pair  displayed  their  talents. 

The  husband  was  ugly  and  deformed,  quite  a  dwarf;  the 
wife,  on  the  contrary,  young  and  pretty;  she  played  the  harp 
and  he  the  violin.  His  voice  was  sonorous.  It  was  the  most 
brilliant  bass,  so  melodious  and  flexible :  he  sang  with  taste 
and  feeling.  Every  one  around  became  attentive.  No  one 
read  his  paper  longer,  no  one  gossiped  with  his  neighbor ;  it 
was  a  song  worth  hearing,  and  the  Italians  have  an  ear  for  song. 

I  observed  that  the  young  wife  once  looked  at  him  with  an 
expression  of  mildness,  and  with  so  friendly  a  smile  that  their 
every-day  life  appeared  as  an  adventure,  his  ugliness  a  spell, 
which  she  well  knew;  his  nobler  "self"  revealed  itself  in 
song, and  whilst  he  sang  the  ugly  mask  would  once  and  forever 
fall,  and  she  would  see  him  young  and  handsome  as  she  was 
herself. 

All  the  guests  gave  him  a  small  tribute  ;  mine  rattled  in  his 
hat  as  they  called  me  to  the  post-house. 

The  building  here  was  formerly  a  cloister ;  one  must  go 
through  arcades,  over  the  court-yard  of  an  old  cloister,  into 
the  church,  a  large  one,  built  in  the  Italian  style,  and  which 
now  serves  as  a  coach-house. 

The  air  without,  lighted  by  the  moon,  threw  so  much  light 
upon  the  cupola,  that  all  the  outlines  appeared  distinct.  The 
lower  part  of  the  church  itself  was  almost  in  the  dark.  A 
large  stable  lantern  hung  where  the  brass  lustre  had  before 
hung;  the  diligence  and  one  of  the  nearest  carriages  was 
lighted  by  it ;  round  about  stood  trunks,  travellers'  baggage, 
and  packages.  The  whole  made  a  disagreeable  impression  on 


44  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

me,  for  there  was  too  much  here  that  reminded  me  of  the 
house  of  God. 

I  know  not  with  what  feelings  the  Catholic  regards  such  a 
change  as  that  of  a  church  into  a  stable.  I  have  always  imag- 
ined that  the  Catholic  was  more  zealous  for  his  creed  than  the 
less  ceremonious  Protestant.  I  felt  glad  to  leave  the  place. 

The  church  door  opened,  and  where  the  choristers  had 
swung  their  censers  with  incense  before  the  kneeling  crowd, 
our  horses'  hoofs  pattered,  the  postilion  blew  his  horn,  and  we 
drove  away.  Four  mounted  gendarmes  accompanied  us,  for 
the  way  was  not  safe. 

Everything  was  soon  still  and  lonely ;  we  saw  no  more  lights 
shining  from  any  house  by  the  way. 

We  approached  the  river  Po,  and  all  around  showed  traces 
of  the  last  inundation.  Field  and  road  were  covered  with  a 
thick  mud  ;  we  could  only  drive  slowly.  By  the  bank  of  the 
.  river  lay  a  solitary  ferry-boat,  so  large  that  the  carriage  and 
horses  could  drive  on  to  it ;  a  small  wooden  shed  was  also 
erected  on  the  vessel ;  within  it  burned  a  large  fire,  round 
which  we  all  flocked,  as  the  night  was  cold,  whilst  the  stream 
itself  carried  the  ferry-boat  over.  Everything  was  so  still  that 
we  heard  only  the  whistling  sound  of  the  ropes  round  the  pul- 
ley by  which  our  vessel  was  held,  as  the  stream  drove  it  on. 
The  ferry  was  crossed :  fresh  gendarmes,  on  horseback  and 
wrapped  up  in  large  cloaks,  awaited  us. 

IV. 

MOONLIGHT  AND  SUNLIGHT. 

It  was  after  midnight :  I  sat  in  the  rolling  carriage,  the 
soldiers  kept  close  to  it ;  it  was  the  most  beautiful  moonlight  ! 
A  large  city  with  old  walls  lay  straight  before  us  ;  it  was 
again  pitchy  night,  we  rode  in  through  the  gate,  and  the  moon 
again  shone.  We  were  in  Modena !  That  sight  is  before  me 
now,  full  of  moonshine,  like  a  strange  dream.  Old  buildings 
with  arcades :  a  magnificent  palace  with  an  extensive  open 
place  revealed  itself;  but  all  was  void  and  still,  not  a  light 
shone  on  us  from  a  single  window,  not  one  living  being  moved 
in  the  large  old  city  ;  it  was  quite  like  witchcraft.  We  stopped 


ENTRANCE   INTO  ITALY. 


45 


in  a  little  square,  in  the  centre  of  which  stood  a  brick  column, 
the  upper  part  of  which  formed  a  sort  of  lantern  with  a  glass 
window ;  a  lamp  burned  within.  This  sort  of  altar  is  called 
"  the  eternal  light ; "  the  lamp  is  kept  burning  night  and  day. 

The  flame  appeared  in  the  clear  moonlight  like  a  red  spot, 
a  painted  flame  ;  a  woman  wrapped  in  a  ragged  mantle  sat 
there  and  slept.  She  leaned  her  head  against  the  cold  wall 
of  the  pillar ;  a  sleeping  child  lay  on  her  knee  with  its  head 
on  her  lap.  I  stood  long  and  regarded  this  group  ;  the  little 
one's  hand  was  half  open  on  its  mother's  knee  !  I  laid  a 
small  coin  quite  gently  in  the  child's  hand  ;  it  opened  its  eyes, 
looked  at  me,  and  closed  them  again  directly.  What  was  it 
dreaming  of?  I  knew  that  when  it  awoke,  the  moonlight 
would  cause  the  money  to  appear  like  silver  in  its  hand. 

I  saw  Bologna  by  sunlight ;  it  lies  between  luxuriant  vine 
fields,  close  under  the  Apennines,  which  form  a  green  hedge 
wherein  every  tendril  is  a  vineyard,  every  flower  a  villa  or  a 
church. 

The  sun  plays  a  great  part  in  this  country  ;  the  inhabitants 
of  the  city  do  not  like  it,  therefore  everything  is  calculated  to 
afford  shade,  every  house  forms  a  cool  piazza ;  but  the  sun 
rules  in  the  vine  fields  and  ripens  the  juicy  grape  ;  it  even 
forms  an  alliance  with  the  stones.  It  is  here  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, in  Mount  Paderno,  that  the  so-called  Bononian  stone 
(Spongia  di  Luce)  is  found,  which  has  the  particular  quality 
tf  absorbing  the  sun's  rays,  and  of  giving  a  light  in  the  dark. 

I  thought  of  this  when  I  saw  the  great  city  in  the  sunlight, 
and  my  eye  fell  on  the  leaning  tower.  This  is  also  a  mass  of 
stone  which  gives  light,  thought  I,  but  it  has  got  its  light  from 
Dante's  "  Divina  Commedia." 

I  thought  of  this  when  I  visited  the  rich  cemetery  and 
looked  at  the  many  marble  monuments ;  they  are  also  Bono- 
nian stones  which  receive  their  light  from  the  dead  they  are 
placed  over  ;  but  I  found  none  which  as  yet  had  absorbed 
any  light,  though  on  one  was  inscribed,  that  here  lay  a  cele- 
brated dramatist,  and  on  another,  that  here  reposed  a  lady 
who  could  speak  Greek  and  Latin. 

I  thougnt  of  the  Bononian  stone  as  I  stood  before  one  of 
the  private  buildings  in  the  city,  and  they  told  me  the  name 


46  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

of  its  owner.  This  house  will  also  some  day  send  forth  a 
nimbus,  but  it  has  not  yet  ;  for  the  sun  is  up,  the  stone 
drinks  in  the  rays  in  our  time  ;  the  owner  must  die,  then 
comes  the  lustre  —  the  owner  is  the  composer  Giacomo  Ros- 
sini. 


II. 

A    NIGHT   ON   THE   APENNINES. 

THE  Apennines  with  their  trees  and  vineyards  rise  tower- 
ing above  the  green,  flat  plains  of  Lombardy.  As  we  arrive 
outside  the  gates  of  Bologna,  it  appears  as  if  the  road  passed 
over  the  ruined  terraces  of  an  immense  garden,  like  those 
which,  history  tells  us,  a  Semiramis  constructed. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  December ;  everything  bore  the 
character  of  a  late  autumn.  The  vine  leaves  were  red,  the 
foliage  of  other  trees  yellow,  the  laurel  hedges  alone  were 
green,  as  at  all  times,  and  the  pines  and  cypresses  carried 
their  heads  aloft  in  all  their  splendor.  We  drove  slowly  up- 
ward, ever  upward  ;  garlands  of  vine  leaves  hung  down  over 
the  shattered  wall  ;  we  met  droves  of  fine  oxen  which  had 
been  employed  as  fore-teams,  their  white,  shining  sides  had  a 
reddish  tinge  from  the  setting  sun. 

As  we  came  higher  up,  the  country  became  more  and  more 
solitary  ;  I  went  on  before  alone.  The  sun  was  down,  and 
for  some  minutes  there  lay  a  bluish  tone  over  the  mountains, 
—  an  airy  tone  which  seemed  as  if  it  streamed  out  from  the 
mountain  itself ;  not  a  breeze  was  felt ;  it  was  mild  and  still, 
and  there  was  a  greatness  in  the  cliffs  and  the  deep  valley 
.hat  disposed  the  mind  to  devotion.  The  solitude  of  the 
valley  imparted  to  this  —  I  will  not  say  a  stamp  of  melan- 
choly, no,  I  think  it  must  be  called  quietude  ;  it  was  as  if 
sleep  had  its  kingdom  there  beneath  ;  there  was  a  rest,  a 
peace,  which  was  increased  by  the  gentle  murmur  of  the  river 
far  below. 

The  road  wound  round  the  mountain,  and  I  soon  lost  al1 
sight  of  our  vehicle  ;  I  saw  not  a  being,  I  saw  nothing  but  the 
deep  valley;  I  was  alone  —  quite  alone. 


A   NIGHT  ON  THE  APENNINES. 


47 


It  was  night,  the  stars  peeped  forth ;  they  glitter  more 
brightly  with  us  on  a  clear,  frosty,  winter  night ;  but  here  in 
the  mountains  the  air  is  much  higher,  its  distant  vault  was 
transparent,  as  if  a  new  and  immense  space  began  behind  this. 

A  ray  of  light  shone  forth  between  the  rocks,  it  came  from 
an  inn  above  us.  A  lamp  burned  before  an  image  of  the 
Madonna  in  the  open  arcade  ;  the  cameriere,  in  white  apron 
and  velvet  jacket,  received  us.  We  took  our  place  in  a  large 
hall,  the  grayish-white  walls  of  which  were  covered  with  names 
and  inscriptions  in  all  the  European  languages ;  but  it  was 
cold  and  solitary  here.  Large  bundles  of  twigs  were  thrown 
on  the  fire  ;  they  blazed  up  in  a  great  flame,  and  invited  us 
to  form  a  circle  around  the  chimney.  Every  one  in  our  little 
company  had  something  to  relate,  particularly  about  the  last 
great  inundation. 

After  having  enjoyed  the  smoking  supper,  each  one  sought 
his  chamber ;  mine  lay  somewhat  remote ;  it  was  large  and 
lonely.  The  bed  was  just  as  broad  as  it  was  long  ;  the  vessel 
with  holy  water  hung  by  the  bed-head  ;  inscriptions  were  also 
to  be  found  here  on  the  wall ;  one  was  in  Danish,  — 

"  Enjoy  life's  happiness  in  thy  day's  youthful  prime,"  — 

written  by  a  compatriot.  I  hope  that  he  enjoyed  life.  A 
poor  table  and  two  rush-chairs  completed  the  rest  of  the  furni- 
ture. 

I  opened  a  window ;  large  iron  bars  were  fixed  across  on 
the  outside  ;  the  window  looked  out  over  a  deep  valley  ;  it  was 
dark  beneath.  I  heard  the  roar  of  a  current ;  above  me  was 
the  firmament  sparkling  with  stars  ;  I  leaned  my  forehead 
against  the  iron  bars,  and  felt  myself  no  more  alone  than  I 
am  in  my  little  room  in  Denmark.  He  who  has  a  home  at 
home,  can  feel  home-sickness  ;  but  he  who  has  none  feels 
himself  equally  at  home  everywhere.  In  the  course  of  a  few 
minutes  my  room  here  was  an  old  home  to  me,  though  I 
knew  not  its  environs  as  yet. 

Besides  the  general  entrance,  I  saw  &  little  door  with  a 
kx>lt  before  it.  Where  may  this  lead  to,  thought  I  ?  I  took 
the  lamp,  in  which  three  wicks  were  burning  I  lighted  all  five, 
drew  the  bolt  aside,  and  set  out  on  a  voyage  of  discovery. 


48  A   POETS  BAZAAR. 

( )utside  I  found  a  sort  of  lumber-room  ;  here  stood  chests> 
sacks,  large  jars,  and  on  the  walls  hung  old  clothes  and  mus- 
kets. But  from  this  room  there  was  another  outlet ;  I  opened 
the  door,  and  now  stood  in  a  narrow  passage ;  I  followed  it, 
and  stopped  at  a  door :  should  I  go  further  ?  I  listened. 
Then  at  once  I  heard  the  tones  of  two  flutes,  a  deep,  and 
a  sharp  piercing  one,  —  after  an  interval  they  were  repeated. 

The  longer  I  listened  the  more  sure  I  was  that  it  could 
not  be  from  a  flute  these  tones  came.  I  lifted  the  wooden 
latch  and  the  door  flew  quickly  open,  —  much  quicker  than 
I  expected.  The  room  was  dimly  lighted  by  a  lamp  ;  an  old 
peasant,  with  long  white  hair,  sat  half  undressed  in  an  arm- 
chair and  played  on  a  flute.  I  made  an  excuse  for  coming, 
but  he  did  not  notice  me.  I  pulled  the  door  to  again,  and 
was  going ;  but  it  was  opened  again,  and  a  young  lad,  whom 
I  had  not  observed,  asked  me  in  a  whisper  whom  I  was 
seeking. 

The  old  man  I  had  seen  was  the  uncle  of  my  host ;  he  was 
insane,  and  had  been  so  from  his  sixteenth  year.  "  I  will  tell 
you  a  little  about  him,"  said  the  lad.  "  His  malady  was  as  if 
blown  on  him  —  no  one  knew  the  cause ;  he  had,  when  a  boy, 
played  the  flute  very  prettily ;  but  from  a  certain  night  he  had 
never  since  attempted  more  than  these  two  tones  —  a  deep 
sorrowful  one,  and  a  high  piercing  one.  These  he  constantly 
repeated,  and  often  for  several  hours  during  the  night."  They 
had  attempted  to  take  the  flute  from  him,  and  then  he  became 
like  a  wild  animal ;  with  the  flute,  however,  he  sat  still  and 
mild.  The  young  man  I  spoke  with  slept  in  the  chamber 
with  the  old  man,  and  was  accustomed  to  the  sound  of  the 
flute,  as  one  may  be  to  the  strokes  of  the  pendulum,  or  the  cop- 
persmith's hammer,  when  he  has  been  one's  neighbor  for  a 
series  of  years. 

I  returned  to  my  room,  and  closed  the  door ;  but  yet  I 
thought  I  heard  the  two  tones  of  the  flute  ;  they  sounded  as 
when  the  wind  moves  the  vane  on  a  distant  spire.  I  could 
not  fall  asleep,  my  fancy  was  occupied  with  the  old  man.  I 
heard  the  tones  of  the  flute,  —  they  sounded  as  from  a  world 
of  spirits.  When  the  old  man  is  dead,  the  inmates  of  the 
house  will,  in  the  stillness  of  night,  think  that  they  hear,  lik« 


THE  BRONZE  HOG. 


49 


ghost-tones,  what  I  now  heard  in  reality.  It  was  early  morn- 
ing before  I  fell  asleep,  and  I  believe  they  called  me  the  same 
hour  ;  we  were  to  depart  at  daybreak.  It  was  night  when  we 
got  into  the  carriage ;  the  mountains  before  us  were  covered 
with  snow ;  in  the  dawn  they  seemed  as  if  they  were  glowing. 
At  Pietra  Mala  we  see  but  wild,  naked  cliffs  of  a  volcanic 
nature,  and  the  volcanoes  are  not  burnt  out ;  to  the  right,  a 
thick  smoke  curled  up  from  the  rocky  clefts.  This  morning 
I  discerned  two  seas  like  a  glittering  stripe  in  the  horizon  ; 
to  the  left,  the  Adriatic,  to  the  right,  the  Mediterranean. 
A  strong  wall  is  erected  here  on  the  highest  point  close  to 
the  way-side,  to  afford  travellers  a  shelter,  against  the  storms 
which  come  from  the  east ;  before  this  wall  was  built,  there 
were  often  days  and  nights  that  no  one  could  venture  here, 
for  the  angel  of  the  storm  passed  over  the  mountains. 

"  The  old  man  at  the  inn,"  said  the  vetturino,  "  one  night, 
in  the  worst  storm,  crept  on  his  stomach  over  this  rock, 
though  he  was  not  deranged  then  ;  he  must,  and  would  de- 
scend on  the  other  side  of  the  mountain !  " 

I  thought  of  the  old  man  and  of  the  tones  of  his  flute. 

The  way  downward  was  beautifully  picturesque,  in  bold  ser- 
pentine lines,  sometimes  over  walled  arches,  always  sheltered 
by  the  mountains,  where  the  sun  shone  warm,  where  the  snow 
was  melted,  and  the  trees  stood  in  full  leaf.  "  Beautiful  It- 
aly ! "  we  all  exclaimed.  The  vetturino  cracked  his  whip,  and 
the  echo  repeated  it,  as  he  could  not  have  done  it. 


III. 

THE   BRONZE    HOG. 
A  STORY. 

IN  the  city  of  Florence,  not  far  from  Piazza  del  Granduca, 
runs  a  little  cross-street ;  I  think  it  is  called  Porta  Rossa. 
In  this  street,  before  a  sort  of  bazaar  where  they  sell  vege- 
tables, stands  a  well-wrought  bronze  figure  of  a  hog.  The 
clear,  fresh  water  bubbles  out  or  the  mouth  of  the  animal, 
which  has  become  dark  green  from  age ;  the  snout  alone 

4 


5<D  A    POET'S  Jl.lt A AR. 

shines  as  if  it  were  polished  bright ;  and  it  is  made  so  by 
the  many  hundred  children  and  lazzaroni  who  take  hold  of 
it  with  their  hands,  and  put  their  mouths  to  the  animal's  to 
drink.  It  is  a  complete  picture  to  see  that  well-formed  ani- 
mal embraced  by  a  pretty,  half-naked  boy,  who  puts  his  sweet 
little  mouth  to  its  snout 

Every  one  that  visits  Florence  will  easily  find  the  place  j 
you  need  only  ask  the  first  beggar  you  see  about  the  Bronze 
Hog,  and  he  will  tell  you. 

It  was  a  late  winter  evening,  the  mountains  were  covered 
with  snow ;  but  it  was  moonlight,  and  the  moon  in  Italy 
gives  a  light  which  is  just  as  good  as  the  best  light  of  a  dark 
winter  day  in  the  North  ;  nay,  it  is  better,  for  here  the  sun 
shines,  the  air  elevates,  whilst  in  the  North  that  cold,  gray, 
leaden  roof  presses  us  down  to  the  earth,  the  cold  wet  earth, 
which  will  hereafter  press  our  coffin. 

Yonder,  in  the  Duke's  palace  garden,  where  a  thousand 
roses  bloom  in  the  winter  time,  a  little  ragged  boy  had  sat 
the  whole  day  long,  under  the  pine-tree's  roof.  He  was  a  boy 
that  might  be  the  image  of  Italy,  —  so  pretty,  so  laughing, 
and  yet  so  suffering.  He  was  hungry  and  thirsty :  no  one 
had  given  him  a  farthing ;  and  when  it  became  dark,  and 
the  garden  was  to  be  closed,  the  porter  chased  him  away. 
He  stood  long  on  the  bridge  over  the  Arno,  dreaming  and 
looking  at  the  stars  as  they  glistened  in  the  water,  between 
him  and  the  noble  marble  bridge,  Delia  Trinita. 

He  bent  his  steps  toward  the  Bronze  Hog,  knelt  half  down, 
threw  his  arms  around  its  neck,  placed  his  little  mouth  to  its 
shining  snout,  and  drank  a  deep  draught  of  the  fresh  water. 
Close  by  lay  salad  leaves,  and  a  few  chestnuts :  these  were  his 
supper.  There  was  not  a  human  being  in  the  street ;  he  was 
quite  alone.  He  sat  down  on  the  swine's  back,  leaned  forward 
so  that  his  little  curled  head  rested  on  that  of  the  animal, 
and,  before  he  himself  knew  it,  was  asleep. 

It  was  midnight,  the  bronze  figure  moved  ;  he  heard  it  say 
quite  distinctly,  "  Hold  fast,  little  boy,  for  now  I  run  I  "  and 
away  it  ran  with  him.  It  was  a  laughable  ride. 

The  first  place  they  came  to  was  Piazza  del  Granduca,  and 
the  bronze  horse  which  bore  the  statue  of  the  Duke  neighecJ 


THE  BRONZE  HOG.  51 

aloud ;  the  variegated  arms  on  the  old  Council  Hall  shone 
like  transparent  paintings ;  and  Michael  Angelo's  David 
swung  his  sling.  It  was  a  strange  life  that  moved !  The 
bronze  groups  with  Perseus,  and  the  "  Rape  of  the  Sabines," 
were  but  too  living :  a  death  shriek  from  them  passed  over 
that  magnificent  but  solitary  place. 

Tne  Bronze  Hog  stopped  by  the  Palazzo  degli  Uffizi,  in 
the  arcade  where  the  nobility  assemble  during  the  pleasures  of 
the  Carnival. 

"  Hold  fast !  "  said  the  animal,  "  hold  fast !  for  we  are  now 
going  up  the  stairs."  The  little  boy  said  not  a  word  ;  he  half 
trembled,  he  was  half  happy. 

They  entered  a  long  gallery  ;  he  knew  it  well,  for  he  had 
been  there  before.  The  walls  were  covered  with  paintings  ; 
here  stood  statues  and  busts  :  everything  was  in  the  brightest 
light,  just  as  if  it  were  day ;  but  it  was  most  splendid  when 
the  door  to  one  of  the  side  rooms  opened.  The  little  fellow 
remembered  the  splendor  here,  yet  this  night  everything  was 
in  its  most  beauteous  lustre. 

Here  stood  a  beautiful  naked  female,  as  beautiful  as  nature 
and  marble's  greatest  master  alone  could  make  her.  She 
moved  her  fine  limbs,  dolphins  played  around  her  feet,  im- 
mortality shone  from  her  eyes.  By  the  world  she  is  called  the 
"  Venus  de'  Medici."  On  each  side  of  her  were  numerous 
marble  groups,  in  which  the  spirit  of  life  had  pierced  the  stone. 
These  were  naked,  well-formed  men  :  the  one  sharpening  the 
sword,  is  called  the  Grinder ;  the  wrestling  Gladiators  form 
the  second  group :  the  sword  is  whetted,  the  combatants 
wrestle  for  the  Goddess  of  Beauty. 

The  boy  was  almost  blinded  with  all  this  lustre :  the  walls 
beamed  with  colors,  and  all  was  life  and  motion  there.  The 
double  image  of  Venus  was  here  seen  —  that  earthly  Venus, 
so  swelling  and  impassioned,  whom  Titian  had  pressed  to 
his  heart.  It  was  strange  to  see.  They  were  two  beautiful 
women ;  their  handsome,  unveiled  limbs  were  stretched  on 
soft  cushions,  their  bosoms  rose,  and  their  heads  moved,  so 
that  the  rich  locks  fell  down  on  their  round  shoulders,  whilst 
their  dark  eyes  spoke  the  glowing  thoughts  within ;  but  not 
one  of  all  the  pictures  ventured  to  step  entirely  out  of  the 


52  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

frame.  The  Goddess  of  Beauty  herself,  the  Gladiators  and 
Grinder,  remained  in  their  places,  for  the  glory  which  beamed 
from  the  Madonna,  Jesus,  and  John,  had  bound  them.  The 
holy  images  were  no  longer  images  —  they  were  the  sainted 
beings  themselves. 

From  saloon  to  saloon  what  splendor !  what  beauty ! 
and  the  little  boy  saw  it  all.  The  Bronze  Hog  went  step 
by  step  through  all  this  magnificence  and  glory.  But  one 
sight  superseded  the  rest  —  one  image  alone  fixed  itself  in 
his  thoughts  :  it  was  caused  by  the  glad,  happy  children  whc 
were  there  on  the  walls :  the  little  boy  had  once  nodded  to 
them  by  daylight. 

Many,  certainly,  have  wandered  carelessly  past  this  picture, 
and  yet  it  incloses  a  treasure  of  poesy:  it  is  Christ  who 
descends  into  the  nether  world  ;  but  it  is  not  the  tortured 
we  see  around  him  ;  no,  they  tell  of  hope  and  immortality. 
Angiolo  Bronzino,  the  Florentine,  painted  this  picture.  The 
expression  of  the  children's  certainty  that  they  are  going  to 
heaven,  is  excellent ;  two  little  ones  embrace  each  other  ;  one 
child  stretches  its  hand  out  to  another  below,  and  points  to 
himself  as  if  he  said,  "  I  am  going  to  heaven ! "  All  the 
elders  stand  uncertain,  hoping,  or  bending  in  humble  prayer 
to  the  Lord  Jesus. 

The  boy  looked  longer  at  this  picture  than  at  any  other ; 
the  Bronze  Hog  stood  still  before  it ;  a  gentle  sigh  was  heard  ; 
did  it  come  from  the  painting,  or  from  the  animal's  breast? 
The  boy  extended  his  hands  toward  the  smiling  children  ; 
then  the  animal  started  off  with  him,  away  —  through  the 
open  front  hall. 

"  Thanks,  and  blessings  on  thee,  thou  sweet  animal  !  "  said 
the  little  boy,  and  patted  the  Bronze  Hog,  who,  with  an  amia- 
ble grunt,  sprang  down  the  stairs  with  him. 

"Thanks,  and  blessings  on  thyself!  "  said  the  animal.  "  I 
have  helped  thee,  and  thou  hast  helped  me,  for  it  is  only  with 
an  innocent  child  on  my  back  that  I  have  strength  to  run. 
\ay,  I  dare  now  enter  under  the  light  of  the  lamp,  before 
cfte  image  of  the  Madonna.  I  can  bear  thee  away  every- 
where, only  not  into  the  church  ;  but  when  thou  art  with  me 
I  can  look  in  through  the  open  door  from  the  outside.  Do 


THE  BRONZE  HOG. 


53 


not  get  off  my  back  •  if  thou  dost,  I  shall  fail  down  dead,  as 
thou  seest  me  in  the  day  at  the  Porta  Rossa." 

"  I  will  stay  with  thee,  my  blessed  animal,"  said  the  little 
boy ;  and  away  they  went  with  a  whizzing  flight  thr&ugh  the 
streets  of  Florence,  and  out  to  the  open  square  before  the 
church  of  Santa  Croce. 

The  large  folding  door  flew  open,  lights  shone  from  the 
altar,  through  the  church,  into  the  solitary  square. 

A  strange  ray  of  light  streamed  forth  from  a  monument  in 
the  left  aisle  ;  a  thousand  moving  stars  formed,  as  it  were,  a 
glory  around  it.  A  device  displayed  itself  on  the  tomb ;  a 
red  ladder  on  a  blue  ground  —  it  appeared  to  glow  like  fire. 
It  was  the  grave  of  Galileo  :  it  is  a  simple  monument,  but  the 
red  ladder  on  the  blue  ground  is  a  significant  device ;  it  is  as 
if  it  belonged  to  art  alone,  for  here  the  way  goes  always  up- 
ward, on  a  glowing  ladder,  but  to  heaven.  All  the  proph- 
ets of  genius  go  to  heaven,  like  the  prophet  Elias. 

In  the  right  aisle  of  the  church  every  statue  on  the  rich 
sarcophagus  seemed  to  be  endowed  with  life.  Here  stood 
Michael  Angelo,  and  there  Dante,  with  the  laurel-wreath 
around  his  brow  ;  those  great  men,  Italy's  pride,  with  Alfieri 
and  Machiavelli,  rest  here  side  by  side.1  It  is  a  handsome 
church,  far  more  so  than  the  marble  cathedral  of  Florence, 
although  it  is  not  so  large. 

It  was  as  if  the  marble  habiliments  moved  ;  as  if  those 
great  forms  raised  their  heads  with  more  dignity  than  ever, 
and  looked,  in  the  deep  night,  during  song  and  music,  toward 
that  variegated,  beaming  altar,  where  white-robed  boys  swung 
golden  censers  :  the  powerful  odor  streamed  forth  from  the 
church  into  the  open  square. 

The  boy  stretched  forth  his  hand  toward  the  beaming  light, 
and  at  the  same  moment  the  bronze  hog  darted  away  with 
him.  He  was  obliged  to  cling  fast  to  it ;  the  wind  whistled 

1  Opposite  Galileo's  tomb  is  that  of  Michael  Angelo,  on  which  is  placed 
his  bust,  beside  three  figures,  —  Sculpture,  Painting,  and  Architecture  ; 
close  by  is  Dante's  cenotaph  (the  body  itself  is  in  Ravenna) ;  on  the  monu- 
ment is  seen  Italy,  she  points  to  the  colossal  statue  of  Dante  ;  Poetry 
weeps  for  her  lost  son.  A  few  paces  from  this  is  the  monument  of  Alfieri ; 
it  is  adorned  with  laurels,  lyres,  and  masks  ;  Italy  weeps  over  his  coffin. 
Machiavelli  closes  the  row  of  these  celebrated  men. 


54  ^   POET^S  BAZAAR. 

about  his  ears  ;  he  heard  the  church  doors  creak  on  theii 
hinges  as  they  closed ;  but  at  the  same  time  he  appeared  to 
lose  all  consciousness  ;  he  felt  an  icy  coldness,  and  opened 
his  eyes. 

It  was  morning  ;  he  sat,  but  half  glided  down  from  the 
Bronze  Hog,  which  stood,  where  it  always  used  to  stand,  in 
the  street  Porta  Rossa. 

Fear  and  anxiety  filled  the  boy's  mind  when  he  thought  of 
her  whom  he  called  mother  ;  her  who  had  the  day  before  sent 
him  out  and  said  that  he  must  get  money ;  he  had  none, 
he  was  hungry  and  thirsty.  Once  more  he  took  the  metal 
hog  round  the  neck,  kissed  its  snout,  nodded  to  it,  and  then 
wandered  away  to  one  of  the  narrowest  streets,  only  broad 
enough  for  a  well  packed  ass.  A  large  iron-bound  door  stood 
ajar ;  he  went  up  a  bricked  staircase  with  dirty  walls  and  a 
slippery  rope  to  serve  as  a  hand  rail  ;  then  came  to  an  open 
gallery  hung  round  with  rags  ;  a  flight  of  stairs  led  from 
thence  to  the  yard,  where  thick  iron  wires  were  drawn  from 
the  wall  to  all  the  floors  in  the  house,  and  the  one  pail  swung 
by  the  side  of  the  other,  whilst  the  pulleys  whistled,  and  the 
pails  danced  in  the  air,  so  that  the  water  splashed  down  into 
the  yard.  There  was  another  dilapidated  brick  staircase 
which  he  went  up ;  two  Russian  sailors  sprang  merrily  down, 
and  had  nearly  upset  the  little  boy.  They  came  from  their 
nightly  carousal.  An  exuberant  female  form,  not  very  young, 
but  with  thick  black  hair,  followed  them. 

"  What  have  you  brought  home  ? "  she  demanded  of  the 
boy. 

"  Do  not  be  angry,"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  I  have  got  nothing ! 
nothing  at  all !  "  and  he  took  hold  of  his  mother's  gown  as  if 
he  would  kiss  it.  They  entered  the  chamber;  but  we  will  net 
describe  it.  Only  so  much  may  be  told,  that  there  stood  a 
pot  with  a  span  handle,  tnarito,  it  is  called,  and  in  this  was 
charcoal.  She  took  it  on  her  arm,  warmed  her  fingers,  and 
struck  the  boy  with  her  elbow. 

"  To  be  sure,  you  have  money  ? "  said  she. 

The  child  cried,  she  kicked  him  ;  he  cried  aloud.  "  Will 
you  be  still,  or  I'll  knock  your  screaming  head  in  two !  "  and 
*he  swung  the  fire-pot,  which  she  held  in  her  hand  ;  the  bo) 


THE  BRONZE  HOG.  55 

fell  to  the  ground  with  a  scream.  Then  her  neighbor  entered 
the  door,  she  also  had  her  marito  on  her  arm. 

"  Felicita !     What  are  you  doing  with  the  child  ?  " 

"The  child  is  mine!"  answered  Felicita.  "I  can  murder 
him  if  I  choose,  and  thee,  also,  Gianina,"  and  she  swung  her 
fire-pot ;  the  other  raised  her's  to  parry  the  blow.  The  pots 
clashed  against  each  other,  and  the  broken  pieces,  fire  and 
ashes,  flew  about  the  room  ;  but  at  the  same  instant  the  boy 
was  out  of  the  door,  over  the  yard,  and  away  from  the  house. 
The  poor  child  ran  so  that  at  last  he  was  quite  breathless. 
He  stopped  at  the  church  of  Santa  Croce,  —  the  church  whose 
large  door  had  the  night  before  opened  to  admit  him,  —  and 
he  went  in.  There  was  a  flood  of  light ;  he  knelt  by  the  first 
grave  to  the  right ;  it  was  Michael  Angelo's,  and  he  sobbed 
aloud.  People  came  and  went ;  the  mass  was  read ;  no  one 
took  notice  of  the  boy.  At  length  an  elderly  citizen  stopped, 
looked  at  him,  and  then  went  away  like  the  rest. 

Hunger  and  thirst  tormented  the  little  fellow  ;  he  was  quite 
exhausted  and  sick  ;  he  crept  into  a  corner  between  the  wall 
and  the  marble  monument,  and  fell  asleep.  It  was  toward 
evening  when  he  was  again  awakened  by  some  one  shaking 
him  ;  he  started  up,  and  the  same  old  citizen  stood  before 
him. 

"  Are  you  ill  ?  Where  do  you  live  ?  Have  you  been  here 
the  whole  day  ? "  were  a  few  of  the  questions  put  to  him  by 
the  old  man.  They  were  answered,  and  the  old  man  took 
him  home  with  him  to  a  small  house  close  by,  in  one  of  the 
side-streets.  It  was  a  glover's  shop  they  entered  ;  the  wife 
sat  diligently  at  work.  A  little  white  Bolognese  dog,  clipped 
so  close  that  one  could  see  its  rosy  red  skin,  skipped  on  to  the 
table,  and  jumped  about  before  the  little  boy. 

"  The  innocent  souls  know  each  other,"  said  the  woman,  as 
she  patted  both  the  boy  and  the  dog. 

The  good  folks  gave  the  poor  boy  to  eat  and  to  drink,  and 
they  said  he  should  be  allowed  to  remain  the  night  over. 
Next  day  father  Giuseppe  would  speak  with  his  mother.  He 
had  a  poor  little  bed  ;  but  it  was  a  magnificent  one  for  him, 
who  was  often  obliged  to  sleep  on  the  hard  stone  floor.  He 
slept  so  well,  and  dreamt  of  the  rich  paintings,  and  of  the 
Bronze  Hog. 


56  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

Father  Giuseppe  went  out  next  morning,  and  the  poor  child 
was  not  happy  on  that  account,  for  he  knew  that  this  going 
out  was  in  order  to  return  him  again  to  his  mother  ;  and  he 
cried  and  kissed  the  nimble  dog,  and  the  woman  nodded  to 
them  both. 

And  what  answer  did  father  Giuseppe  bring  ?  The  citizen 
spoke  much  with  his  wife,  and  she  nodded,  and  patted  the 
boy. 

"  He  is  a  sweet  child !  "  said  she.  "  What  a  fine  glover  we 
can  make  of  him  — just  as  you  were  !  and  he  has  such  fine, 
pliant  fingers.  Madonna  has  destined  him  to  be  a  glover !  " 

And  so  the  boy  remained  there  in  the  house,  and  the  woman 
herself  taught  him  to  sew.  He  lived  well,  he  slept  well,  he 
became  lively,  and  he  began  to  tease  Bellissima — so  the 
little  dog  was  called ;  the  woman  threatened  him  with  her 
finger,  and  chid  him,  and  was  angry,  and  it  went  to  the 
boy's  heart,  as  he  sat  thoughtfully  in  his  little  chamber.  It 
looked  out  to  the  street,  and  they  dried  skins  there  ;  thick  iron 
bars  were  before  the  windows.  He  could  not  sleep,  the  Bronze 
Hog  was  in  his  thoughts,  and  he  suddenly  heard  something 
outside,  —  "  plask,  plask  !  "  Yes,  it  was  certainly  the  hog. 
He  sprang  to  the  window,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  — 
it  was  past. 

"  Help  Signer  to  carry  his  color-box!  "  said  the  old  lady  in 
the  morning  to  the  boy,  as  their  young  neighbor,  the  painter, 
came  toiling  along  with  it,  and  a  large  roll  of  canvas.  The 
child  took  the  box,  and  followed  the  painter  ;  they  made  the 
best  of  their  way  to  the  gallery,  and  went  up  the  same  stairs ; 
he  knew  it  well  from  the  night  that  he  rode  on  the  Bronze  Hog ; 
he  knew  the  statues  and  paintings  ;  the  beautiful  marble  Ve- 
nus ;  and  those  that  lived  in  colors  ;  he  saw  again  Mary,  Jesus, 
and  John.  They  now  stood  still  before  the  picture  by  Bronzino, 
where  Christ  descends  into  the  nether  world,  and  the  children 
•ound  about  smile  in  sweet  certainty  of  heaven  ;  the  poor 
child  smiled  also,  for  he  was  here  in  his  heaven  ! 

"  Now  go  home  ! "  said  the  painter  to  him,  when  the  boy 
had  stood  until  he  had  adjusted  his  easel. 

"  May  I  see  you  paint  ?  "  said  the  boy  ;  "  may  I  see  how  you 
get  the  picture  there  on  to  that  white  piece  ? " 


THE  BRONZE  HOG.  57 

"  I  am  not  going  to  paint  now,"  answered  the  young  man, 
and  took  his  black  crayon  out.  His  hand  moved  quickly,  his 
eye  measured  the  large  picture,  and,  though  it  was  but  a  thin 
stroke  that  came  forth,  yet  Christ  stood  hovering  there  as  on 
the  colored  canvas. 

"  But  you  must  go,  now  !  "  said  the  painter,  and  the  boy 
sauntered  silently  homeward  :  he  sat  down  on  the  table,  and 
learned  —  to  sew  gloves. 

But  his  thoughts  were  the  wfyole  day  in  the  picture-gallery, 
and,  therefore,  he  pricked  his  fingers,  was  intolerably  awkward, 
but  did  not  tease  Bellissima.  When  it  was  evening,  and  the 
street  door  just  chanced  to  be  open,  he  stole  out ;  it  was  cold 
but  starlight,  so  beautiful  and  clear,  and  he  wandered  away 
through  the  streets,  which  were  already  still,  and  he  soon  stood 
before  the  Bronze  Hog,  which  he  bent  down  over,  kissing  its 
bright  snout ;  and  he  got  on  its  back. 

"Thou  blessed  animal,"  said  he,  "  how  I  have  longed  for 
thee !  We  must  ride  a  little  to  night !  " 

The  Bronze  Hog  remained  immovable,  and  the  fresh  water 
welled  from  its  mouth.  The  little  boy  sat  there  like  a  jockey 
until  some  one  pulled  him  by  the  clothes.  He  looked  around, 
it  was  Bellissima,  the  little,  naked,  shorn  Bellissima.  The 
dog  had  crept  out  of  the  house  and  followed  the  little  boy 
without  his  having  observed  it.  Bellissima  barked  as  if  it 
would  say,  "  You  see  I  am  with  you,  why  will  you  sit  there  ? " 
No  fiery  dragon  could  have  frightened  the  boy  more  than 
the  little  dog  in  that  place.  Bellissima  in  the  street,  and  with- 
out being  dressed,  as  the  old  mother  called  it !  what  would  be 
the  consequence  ?  The  dog  was  never  allowed  to  go  out  in  the 
winter  time  without  being  clothed  in  a  little  sheep-skin,  which 
was  cut  and  sewed  to  fit  it.  The  skin  was  to  be  bound  fast 
about  the  neck  and  belly  with  red  ribbons,  and  it  had  bells. 
The  dog  looked  almost  like  a  little  kid  when  it  had  this 
habit  on  in  the  winter  time,  and  was  permitted  to  trip  out 
with  Signora.  Bellissima  was  with  him,  and  not  dressed  ; 
what  would  be  the  result  ?  All  his  wild  fancies  had  vanished, 
yet  the  boy  kissed  the  Bronze  Hog,  and  took  Bellissima  in 
his  arms.  The  animal  trembled  with  cold,  and  therefore  the 
boy  ran  as  fast  as  he  could. 


58  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

"  What  are  you  running  with  there  ?  "  cried  two  gendarmes 
whom  he  met ;  and  Bellissima  barked. 

"  Where  have  you  stolen  that  pretty  dog  from  ? "  they  asked, 
and  ;ook  it  from  him. 

"  O  !  give  it  me  again  !  "  whimpered  the  boy. 

"  If  you  have  not  stolen  it,  you  can  tell  them  at  home  that 
they  can  get  the  dog  at  the  guard-house."  They  named  the 
place,  and  away  they  went  with  Bellissima. 

Here  was  sorrow  and  trouble.  He  knew  not  whether  he 
should  spring  into  the  Arno,  or  go  home  and  confess  all. 
They  would  certainly  kill  him,  he  thought.  "  But  I  would 
willingly  be  killed  !  I  will  die,  and  then  I  shall  go  to  Jesus 
and  Madonna ; "  and  he  went  home  with  the  thought  of 
being  killed. 

The  door  was  locked  ;  he  could  not  reach  the  knocker ; 
there  was  no  one  in  the  street,  but  there  was  a  loose  stone ;  he 
took  it  up  and  hammered  away  at  the  door.  "  Who  is  that  ? " 
cried  a  voice  from  within. 

"It  is  me!"  said  he.  "  Bellissima  is  lost!  —  let  me  in, 
and  kill  me  ! " 

They  were  so  frightened,  particularly  Signora,  for  poor 
Bellissima!  She  looked  directly  to  the  wall  where  the  dog's 
vestment  always  hung,  and  the  little  sheep-skin  was  there. 

"  Bellissima  in  the  guard-house  ! "  she  cried  quite  aloud  ; 
"you  wicked  child  !  How  did  you  get  him  out!  He  will  be 
frozen  to  death !  That  delicate  animal  among  the  coarse 
soldiers." 

The  old  man  was  obliged  to  be  off  directly.  The  wife 
wailed,  and  the  boy  cried.  All  the  people  in  the  house  mus- 
tered together,  the  painter  too ;  he  took  the  boy  between  his 
knees,  questioned  him,  and  by  bits  and  scraps  he  got  the 
whole  story  about  the  Bronze  Hog  and  the  gallery  —  it  was  not 
easy  to  understand.  The  painter,  however,  consoled  the  little 
fellow,  and  spoke  kindly  to  the  old  woman  ;  but  she  was  not 
satisfied  before  "  father  "  came  with  Bellissima,  who  had  been 
amongst  the  soldiers.  There  was  such  joy,  and  the  painter 
patted  the  poor  boy,  and  gave  him  a  handful  of  pictures. 

O,  they  were  splendid  pieces,  comic  heads !  but,  above  all 
there  was  the  Bronze  Hog  itself  to  the  life.  O,  nothing  could 


THE  BRONZE  HOG. 


59 


be  more  glorious !  With  a  few  strokes,  it  stood  there  on  paper, 
and  even  the  house  behind  it  was  shown. 

"  O,  how  I  wish  I  could  draw  and  paint !  then  I  could 
obtain  the  whole  world  for  myself." 

The  first  leisure  moment  that  the  little  fellow  had  next  day, 
he  seized  a  pencil,  and  on  the  white  side  of  one  of  the 
pictures  he  attempted  to  copy  the  drawing  of  the  Bronze 
Hog,  and  he  succeeded  !  A  little  crooked,  a  little  up  and 
down,  one  leg  thick  and  another  thin,  but  yet  it  was  not  to 
be  misunderstood  ;  he  himself  exulted  over  it.  The  pencil 
would  not  go  just  as  straight  as  it  should  do,  he  could  per- 
ceive ;  but  next  day  there  stood  another  Bronze  Hog  by  the 
side  of  the  first,  and  it  was  a  hundred  times  better ;  the  third 
was  so  good  that  every  one  might  know  it. 

But  the  glove-making  went  badly  on,  the  town  errands 
went  on  slowly,  for  the  Bronze  Hog  had  taught  him  that  all 
pictures  could  be  drawn  on  paper,  and  the  city  of  Florence 
is  a  whole  picture-book,  if  one  will  but  turn  the  leaves  over. 
On  the  Piazza  della  Trinitk  there  stands  a  slender  pillar,  and 
on  the  top  of  this  stands  the  Goddess  of  Justice,  with  her 
eyes  bound,  and  the  scales  in  her  hand. 

She  soon  stood  on  the  paper,  and  it  was  the  glover's  little 
boy  who  had  placed  her  there.  The  collection  of  pictures 
increased  ;  but  everything  in  it  was  as  yet  but  still-life  ;  when 
one  day  Bellissima  hopped  about  before  him.  "  Stand  still, " 
said  he  ;  "  you  shall  be  beautiful,  and  be  amongst  my  pictures ! " 
but  Bellissima  would  not  stand  still,  so  he  must  be  bound  ; 
his  head  and  tail  were  fastened  ;  he  barked  and  jumped :  the 
string  must  be  tightened  —  when  in  came  Signora  ! 

"  You  wicked  boy !  the  poor  animal !  "  was  all  that  she 
could  say :  and  she  pushed  the  boy  aside,  kicked  him  with  her 
foot,  and  turned  him  out  of  her  house  ;  he,  the  most  ungrateful 
rascal,  the  naughtiest  child !  and  crying,  she  kissed  her  lit- 
tle half  strangled  Bellissima. 

Just  then  the  painter  came  up  the  stairs,  and  —  here  is  the 
point  on  which  the  story  turns. 

In  the  year  1834  there  was  an  exhibition  in  the  Academia 
della  Arte  in  Florence  ;  two  paintings  placed  by  the  side  of 
each  other  drew  a  number  of  spectators  to  them.  The  small- 


6O  A   FOETUS  BAZAAR. 

est  painting  represented  a  merry  little  boy,  who  sat  drawing; 
he  had  for  his  model  a  little,  white,  nicely-clipped  pug-dog, 
but  the  animal  would  not  stand  still,  and  was  therefore  bound 
fast  with  pack-thread,  and  that  both  by  the  head  and  tail ;  there 
was  life  and  truth  in  it  that  must  appeal  to  every  one.  The 
painter  was,  as  they  said,  a  young  Florentine  who  had  been 
found  in  the  streets  when  a  little  boy.  He  had  been  brought 
up  by  an  old  glover  and  had  taught  himself  drawing.  A 
painter,  now  famous,  had  discovered  this  talent,  the  boy  hav- 
ing been  turned  away  because  he  had  bound  his  mistress's 
favorite,  the  little  pug-dog,  and  made  it  his  model. 

The  glover's  boy  had  become  a  great  painter.  The  picture 
proved  it ;  but  it  was  particularly  shown  in  the  larger  one  by 
its  side.  Here  was  but  a  single  figure,  a  ragged  but  beautiful 
boy,  who  sat  and  slept  in  the  street ;  he  leaned  up  against 
the  Bronze  Hog  in  the  street  Porta  Rossa.1  All  the  spec- 
tators knew  the  place.  The  child's  arm  rested  on  the  swine's 
head  ;  the  little  boy  slept  soundly,  and  the  lamp  by  the  image 
of  the  Madonna  cast  a  strong,  effective  light  on  the  child's 
pale,  sweet  face.  It  was  a  magnificent  picture  ;  a  large  gilt 
frame  encircled  it,  and  on  the  corner  of  the  frame  hung  a 
laurel  wreath,  but  between  the  green  leaves,  a  black  ribbon 
entwined  itself,  from  which  a  long  crape  veil  hung  down. 

The  young  artist  was  just  then  dead  ! 


IV. 

TRAVELLING   WITH   THE   VETTURINO. 

THE  most  general  mode  of  travelling  through  Italy  is  with 
the  Vetturino ;  he  arranges  the  whole,  but  then  one  must  stop 
where  he  will,  eat  what  he  orders  to  be  placed  on  the  table, 
and  sleep  in  the  place  he  pleases  to  choose  for  us.  Dinner 
and  lodging  are  always  included  in  the  agreement ;  but  the 
iourney  always  lasts  twice  as  long  as  when  one  travels  by 
post ;  it  is  also  quite  characteristic  that,  after  having  agreed 

1  The  Bronze  Hog  is  a  cast ;  the  original  is  antique  and  of  marble , 
it  is  placed  at  the  entrance  to  the  gallery  in  Palazzo  degli  Uffizi. 


TRAVELLING    WITH  THE    VETTURINO.  6 1 

with  the  man,  we  do  not  give  him  money  in  hand,  but  he,  on 
the  contrary,  gives  us  ;  for  he  is  sure  that  we  shall  not  run 
away  from  him  ;  but  we  cannot  be  so  certain  with  respect  to 
him,  for  if  a  higher  price  be  offered  him  than  that  we  have 
agreed  to  give,  he  takes  the  highest  bidder,  and  lets  us  remain 
behind  with  what  he  has  put  into  our  hands. 

The  time  of  departure  is  generally  before  sunrise  ;  but  as 
the  vetturino  has  his  passengers  to  fetch  from  different  places 
in  the  town,  and  as  all  do  not  belong  to  the  class  of  early 
risers,  some  are  to  be  awakened  when  he  comes ;  others  stand 
busy  packing  up,  so  that  it  is  late  in  the  morning  before  the 
last  passenger  can  be  got  into  the  carriage.  Now  I  belong  to 
those  who  get  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  when  I  have  to 
travel  early  in  the  morning ;  so  I  was  up  here  likewise,  and 
had  everything  ready  to  leave  Florence,  and  to  travel  by  way 
of  Terni  to  Rome,  a  journey  which,  with  the  vetturino,  lasts 
six  whole  days.  The  road  over  Siena  is,  however,  shorter. 
I  knew  them  both,  and  chose  the  most  interesting,  although 
the  longest.  The  vetturino  was  to  start  at  three  o'clock  ;  I 
was  ready  an  hour  earlier,  and  stood  staring  at  my  portman- 
teau and  travelling-bag. 

I  had  my  things  taken  down-stairs  that  they  should  not 
wait  for  me.  The  clock  struck  half-past  two,  but  no  carriage 
came ;  the  clock  struck  four,  there  was  a  rumbling  in  the 
street ;  there  came  a  vetturino,  but  he  drove  past ;  there 
came  another ;  he  also  drove  past,  and  all  was  still ! 

The  clock  struck  one  quarter,  and  then  another.  The 
church-bells  rang  to  prayers,  the  bells  of  the  hotels  rang  for 
the  waiters.  Carriages  enough  came  through  the  street,  but 
none  to  me.  The  clock  struck  five,  then  six —  I  was  certain 
that  they  had  forgotten  me  —  and  then  came  the  carriage. 
Within,  sat  a  stout  Englishman  :  he  was  asleep  when  the  vet- 
turino had  called  for  him.  There  was  also  a  Roman  lady  ; 
she  had  been  on  a  visit  to  her  daughter,  who  resided  in  Flor- 
ence, and  their  leave-taking  had  lasted  an  hour,  so  the  vet- 
turino said,  adding,  we  should  now  be  off  at  a  gallop,  as  soon 
^s  I  had  got  in. 

The  whip  cracked,  we  rolled  over  tne  Arno,  and  then  we 
stopped.  It  was  outside  a  cloister ;  some  ecclesiastics  came 


62  A   POETS  BAZAAR. 

out ;  a  young,  pale  brother  of  the  Camaldolese  order  as- 
cended the  coupl  with  me.  He  was  an  Englishman,  and 
knew  a  little  French,  but  it  was  not  possible  to  get  into  con- 
versation with  him ;  he  read  his  prayer-book  continually, 
smote  his  breast,  crossed  himself,  and  kept  closing  his  eyes  as 
if  he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  either  trees,  mountains, 
or  sun,  much  less  with  such  a  heretic  as  myself.  Every  peo- 
ple's, nay,  every  sect's  different  manner  of  approaching  God 
is  sacred  to  me  ;  I  feel  myself  perplexed  by  the  thought  that 
my  presence  makes  them  less  free  in  their  approach  to  God. 
It  was  thus  also  here  by  the  side  of  this,  the  most  zealous 
Catholic  I  had  hitherto  met ;  but  as  I  by  degrees  observed 
how  entirely  he  lived  within  himself  and  his  forms,  I  also  be- 
came free ;  and  as  he  once  closed  his  prayer-book  and  stole 
a  glance  at  nature,  my  great  holy  Bible,  I  pointed  to  its  beau- 
tiful writings  and  the  sentences  which  might  be  read  there. 
God  had  strewn  ashes  on  the  green  heads  of  the  olive-trees 
which  here  stretched  forth  the  rich  fruit  of  their  gray-green 
branches.  The  vines  held  each  other  fast,  though  the  world 
had  robbed  them  of  their  heavy  grapes,  and  the  wind  now 
plundered  them  of  their  red-brown  leaves.  "  Be  humble,  if 
even  you  give  rich  fruit  to  the  world  !  "  preached  the  olive 
trees.  "  Keep  together  in  unity,  if  even  the  world  rob  you  of 
all !  "  said  the  vine.  Thus  I  read  in  my  Bible :  what  the 
brother  of  the  Camaldolese  read  I  know  not ;  but  the  Bible 
can  be  read  in  many  ways.  In  the  interior  of  the  diligence, 
the  conversation  proceeded  in  a  much  more  lively  manner. 
The  Englishman  spoke  French  with  La  Romana,  and  she 
laughed  and  translated  into  Italian  for  her  spouse  —  a  little 
gentleman  who  was  dressed  like  an  abbot  —  what  the  English- 
man said  to  her.  A  young  priest  was  the  fourth  person,  and 
they  composed  the  party. 

We  came  to  Incisa.  The  young  priest  and  the  little  thin 
man  jumped  out  of  the  diligence,  and  then  came  Signora ; 
the  Englishman  followed  her  with  still  more  difficulty,  as  he 
had  ladies'  fur  boots  on  his  feet,  a  large  blue  cape  over  his 
shoulders,  and  a  thick  woolen  neckerchief  about  his  thin  red 
whiskers.  There  was  something  of  a  courtier's  consciousness 
and  a  chandler's  carriage  about  him  ;  my  English  priest  clothed 


TRAVELLING  WITH  THE  VETTURINO.      63 

in  black,  with  his  boots  over  his  smalls,  very  frozen-looking 
and  devout,  wandered  away  directly  to  the  church  ;  we  others 

accompanied  Sir ,  who  led  La  Romana  up  the  broad,  dirty 

stairs  to  the  salle-b-manger,  which  presented  four  not  over 
white  walls,  a  brick  floor,  some  rush  chairs,  and  a  table,  —  the 
cloth  on  which,  was  in  color  as  though  it  had  been  washed  in 
coffee-water.  The  Englishman  entertained  us  by  telling  about 
all  the  royal  saloons  he  had  been  in,  of  two  princes  who  had 
sat  by  his  bedside  when  he  lay  ill  in  Florence  ;  and  now  he 
was  so  modest  as  to  travel  with  the  vetturino,  and  that  with- 
out having  servants  with  him ;  for  "  one  was  not  in  Italy  for 
one's  servants'  pleasure  ! " 

Signora  bowed  at  every  great  name  he  mentioned,  and  re- 
peated it  to  her  little  husband,  who  bowed  still  lower,  and 
looked  at  the  young  priest,  who  bowed  obediently  as  he  did. 

Now  came  the  dishes,  which  all  of  us,  except  the  Briton, 
had  ordered.  The  Englishman  peered  closely  into  them, 
seized  a  fork,  and  without  any  ceremony  took  the  best  piece 
he  saw.  "  It  is  good,"  said  he,  and  we  all  bowed  politely. 
The  company  did  it  because  of  his  distinction  ;  I  on  account 
of  his  originality. 

The  Signora  now  took  some  small  baked  fruit  cakes,  which 
her  daughter  had  made  for  her.  She  presented  two  of  the 
richest  to  our  guest,  as  we  at  the  table  called  him.  "  I  will 
put  by  these  cakes  until  evening,"  said  he  ;  "  they  are  deli- 
cious ; "  and  he  folded  them  up  in  paper,  put  the  little  parcel 
into  his  pocket,  and  bowed.  "  But  yet  one  ought  to  taste 
them,"  he  reminded  himself;  and  so  he  took  a  piece  from 
Signora.  "  It  is  excellent,  superb ! "  and  he  took  another 
piece. 

Signora  bowed,  and  laughed  aloud.  I  think  she  also  began 
to  find  him  original. 

The  hostess  now  brought  him  his  breakfast,  and  that  dis- 
appeared like  our  dishes.  For  dessert  the  Englishman  gave 
us  a  bravura,  Signora  clapped  her  hands,  and  cried  "  Bravo  !  " 
her  husband  also.  The  waiter  let  fall  the  plate  from  sheer 
astonishment,  and  the  Englishman's  rush-chair  broke  down ; 
it  was  too  crazy  for  an  Englishman  under  excitement  Signora 
now  made  a  sign,  and  her  husband  sang  so  softly,  and  in  such 


64  A  POET'S  BAZAAR. 

a  dying  cadence,  so  ethereally  I  may  say,  that  I  at  last  could 
only  see  by  his  trembling  lips,  that  he  was  still  amusing  us 
with  his  song.  It  met  with  immense  applause.  We  then  got 
into  the  diligence  again.  My  praying  English  priest  now 
appeared,  and  crept  up  with  me  ;  his  breakfast  had  been  the 
air  and  the  little  prayer-book :  he  prayed  still.  The  whip 
cracked,  three  voices  within  the  carriage  rose  in  melody,  and 
away  we  went  again.  Toward  evening  we  had  rain,  but  the 
rain-drops  soon  turned  into  snow-flakes,  which  were  thawed 
directly  on  the  wet,  clayey  road.  We  got  but  slowly  forward  ; 
it  was  dark,  and  there  was  not  a  house  where  we  could  ge; 
our  lantern  lighted.  Signora  moaned  in  dismal  fear  of  rob- 
bers, and  her  spouse  from  dread  of  being  overturned ;  the 
Englishman  railed  at  the  coachman,  and  the  coachman  at  the 
horses,  and  so  it  continued  in  the  same  progression  until  a 
light  at  length  shone  in  the  distance.  We  were  near  a  soli- 
tary inn,  where  we  went  up  into  the  guests'  room  through  a 
stable,  half  frozen  and  hungry.  It  was  a  most  intolerable 
time  before  a  few  sticks  and  twigs  could  be  brought  to  blaze 
in  the  chimney  ;  but  at  the  moment  they  did  blaze,  the  Eng- 
lishman came  with  his  sheets,  and  formed  a  screen  with  them 
around  the  fire-place.  "  They  must  be  dried,"  said  he,  and 
so  the  sheets  got  the  whole  warmth.  The  rest  of  the  com- 
pany put  up  with  it,  and  I  also  was  obliged  to  be  satisfied. 
The  Englishman  and  I  were  to  sleep  in  one  room  together. 
I  entered,  and  found  him  standing  on  my  counterpane  which 
he  had  spread  out  on  the  floor,  having  elevated  his  bed  with 
two  of  my  pillows,  which  he  had  appropriated  to  his  own  use 
without  ceremony. 

"  I  do  not  like  to  lie  with  my  head  low  !  "  said  he. 

"  Nor  I,  either !  "  I  replied.  "  With  your  permission,"  and  I 
took  them  from  him.  He  looked  amazed. 

He  was  an  insupportable  sleeping  companion  ;  he  wanted 
so  much  waiting  on  that  at  last  I  was  obligea  to  go  to  bed  to 
get  rid  of  him.  I  pretended  to  sleep ;  but  I  saw  with  half 
closed  eyes,  that  he  prepared  his  midnight  meal  on  a  rickety 
rush-chair  by  the  bed. 

I  had  been  up  a  long  while  next  morning,  the  horses  were 
already  before  the  diligence,  and  we  still  waited  for  the  Ehg 


TRAVELLING    WITH  THE    VETTURIXC.  65 

lishman.  He  could  never  be  ready.  Signora  had  also  just 
begun  her  toilet. 

"  It  goes  on  slowly,"  said  her  husband,  "  for  she  weeps  from 
anxiety  to  see  her  daughter." 

At  length  we  drove  off. 

I  again  sat  with  my  godly  neighbor,  who  crossed  himself, 
read  his  prayer-book  and  fasted. 

We  were  obliged  to  stop  in  Arezzo,  for  both  the  priests  must 
pray,  and  Signora  said  she  must  absolutely  go  to  confession. 

From  hence  all  around  was  olive  woods.  One  group  of 
trees  disclosed  itself  after  the  other.  The  olive-tree  resem- 
bles the  willow  most ;  but  the  branches  do  not  shoot  forth  in 
stiff  twigs ;  they  bend  more,  the  leaf  is  less,  and  the  trunk  it- 
self looks  as  if  a  giant  hand  had  torn  it  half  up  from  the 
ground,  turned  it  round,  and  then  let  it  stand  waving  in  the 
storm. 

The  old  town  of  Castellone,  situated  on  a  rock,  rises  above 
the  gray-green  olive  woods ;  it  is  one  of  the  dirtiest,  but  also 
most  picturesque  towns  in  Italy.  I  know  not  how  to  de- 
scribe it  better  than  by  saying  that  it  looks  as  if  it  had  taken 
the  houses,  nooks,  and  corners  that  were  much  too  miserable- 
looking  in  other  towns,  and  thrown  them  here  behind  the 
old  wall,  above  and  over  which  they,  however,  protrude. 
These  small  hanging  gardens  are  in  reality  but  scraps  of 
terraces,  which  they  have  fastened  like  balconies  under  a 
window,  or  over  a  door  of  the  house,  where  one  least  expected 
to  see  them.  A  part  of  the  town  wall  forms  a  sort  of  forum 
for  the  people.  The  square  here  was  quite  filled  with  all 
sorts  of  persons  ;  the  steep  road  up  to  the  gate  of  the  town 
also  swarmed  with  pedestrians  and  persons  riding  ;  but  there 
were  no  church-bells  ringing,  no  flags  waving,  otherwise  I 
should  have  thought  it  was  some  great  feast.  From  all  the 
by-ways,  and  even  on  the  high-road,  there  were  swarms  of 
men  and  swine  —  great  grunting  herds. 

A  heavy  cloud  hung  over  our  heads,  and  some  fine  drops 
fell.  The  travellers  extended  their  umbrellas  which  were 
almost  all  of  a  yellow-green,  and  so  colossal  that  one  could 
only  see  the  green  roof,  and  the  hind  part  of  the  ass,  when 
a  monk  or  a  village  donna  rode  before  us.  There  was  such 


66  A   POETS  BAZAAR. 

a  screaming,  and  grunting,  and  hilarity,  the  nearer  we  ap- 
proached the  inn  which  lies  close  to  the  road  by  the  gates 
of  the  town.  There  was  a  swine  market  in  Castellone. 

Signora  stepped  backward  out  of  the  diligence  just  as  a 
whole  herd  of  swine  was  driven  past ;  half  the  drove  ran 
under  the  diligence  ;  it  looked  like  the  waves  of  "  the  Black 
Sea,"  and  Signora  trod  on  the  Black  Sea,  and  rocked  on  it, 
like  a  travestied  Venus  Anadyomene.  She  screamed,  the 
waves  screamed,  and  the  drover  screamed.  It  was  a  perilous 
moment  for  Signora. 

We  sat  down  to  table  in  the  inn.  There  was  such  ordering 
and  shouting  by  the  Englishman,  that  the  whole  house  was 
convinced  he  was  a  disguised  prince,  and  that  he  would  give 
the  attendants  royal  veils.  They  heard  only  him,  they  ran 
only  for  him,  were  abused  and  kicked,  and  to  all  that  he  said 
and  did  they  smiled  and  bowed  ;  but  he  gave  them  no  veils. 
"  For  I  am  very  dissatisfied ! "  said  he  ;  "I  am  dissatified 
with  the  food,  with  the  house,  and  the  attendance  1  "  The 
abashed  waiters  bowed  still  deeper,  and  both  the  priests  took 
their  hats  off  when  he  got  into  the  diligence. 

It  was  so  narrow  and  uncomfortable  within  ;  it  was  so  hung 
round  with  boxes  and  cases  that  every  one  was  obliged  to  be 
very  circumspect,  if  he  would  travel  with  the  slightest  com- 
fort ;  the  whole  of  the  packages  belonged  to  the  Englishman, 
and  yet,  as  he  boasted,  he  paid  the  least  of  us  all.  He  had 
taken  the  best  place,  and  if  a  box  or  a  package  came  too 
near  him  it  was  pushed  over  to  the  others.  "  For  those 
things  trouble  one,"  said  he  ;  and  it  is  true  they  did  ;  but 
all  the  things  were  his  own,  even  the  large  case  which  he  had 
fixed  behind  Signora's  neck. 

At  Lago  di  Perugia  we  left  .the  Tuscan,  and  entered  the  Pa- 
pal territory.  The  Custom-house  looked  Hke  a  deserted  sta- 
ble, but  it  it  is  finely  situated  on  the  side  of  a  mountain  in  the 
midst  of  an  olive  grove,  from  the  terraces  of  which  we  look 
down  to  the  sea.  The  sun  cast  strong  red  rays  on  the  trees , 
pretty  peasant  girls  with  white  veils  over  their  shoulders  drove 
their  cattle  along,  and  I  rejoiced  at  the  sight  of  this  living 
picture,  whilst  the  officers  of  the  customs  examined  the  con- 
tents of  our  portmanteaus. 


TRAVELLING    WITH  THE    VETTURINO.  <5" 

r 

It  was  dark  before  we  got  away.  The  road  was  heavy  and 
our  horses  exhausted.  We  proceeded  at  a  very  slow  pace  ; 
the  vetturino  said  that  the  road  here  was  not  safe,  —  that  is  to 
say,  we  had  no  robbers  to  fear,  but  thieves  might  cut  off  our 
baggage  from  behind  the  diligence.  Signora  wept  aloud. 

AVe  now  took  it  in  turns  to  walk  two  behind  at  a  time,  to 
keep  a  lookout.  It  was  a  heavy,  clayey  forest-road,  only 
lighted  by  the  miserable  flame  of  our  carriage-lantern,  and 
in  addition  we  had  also  to  go  up  hill.  The  horses  panted, 
the  Englishman  growled,  and  Signora  sighed  from  the  deepest 
depths  of  her  heart. 

Late  in  the  evening  we  reached  the  village  of  Pasignore, 
which  is  regarded  by  all  travellers  as  a  genuine  robber-hole. 

Two  stout,  masculine  looking  girls,  strong,  and  florid  com- 
plexioned,  each  of  whom  looked  like  a  robber's  bride,  waited 
upon  us  in  the  inn.  We  got  a  soup  to  which  we  gave  a 
taste  by  putting  in  much  salt,  pepper,  and  cheese  ;  we  also 
got  some  boiled,  and  then  some  small  fried  fish,  each  as  large 
as  a  finger.  The  wine  was  sour  as  vinegar,  the  grapes  mouldy, 
and  the  bread  as  hard  as  a  stone. 

The  beds  were  all  as  broad  as  they  were  long ;  they  seemed 
to  be  arranged  for  four  persons  lengthwise  and  four  cross- 
wise. 

The  rain  poured  down  in  torrents  the  whole  night. 

As  we  were  leaving  the  inn  in  the  morning,  having  to  de- 
scend the  steep  stone  stairs  which  passed  almost  perpendic- 
ularly through  two  floors,  our  buttoned-up  and  overcoated 
Englishman  trod  on  something  —  I  know  not  what  —  and 
rolled  from  the  topmost  step  very  gracefully  down  the  whole 
stairs,  step  for  step ;  but  this  did  not  put  him  in  better 
humor. 

The  road  to  Perugia  goes  upward.  We  had  got  oxen 
for  leaders  to  our  conveyance ;  they  went  but  slowly,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  we  should  never  reach  the  good  city,  which  is 
more  famed  for  the  potter's  son  than  for  all  its  bishops.1 

At  length  we  arrived  there. 

The  passage  in  the  hotel  was  crowded  with  armorial  shields  ; 

1  Perugia,  as  it  is  well  known,  is  the  place  where  Raphael  received 
instruction. 


68  A    POET'S  BAZAAR. 

one  was  hung  up  for  ever}-  prince  who  had  passed  a  night 
here.  The  Danish  wild-men  were  also  here  ;  they  seemed  to 
interest  Signora,  particularly  when  she  heard  from  me  that 
they  were  my  countrymen  ;  and  she  asked  me  quite  naively,  if 
they  went  dressed  in  that  manner  in  our  cold  land. 

The  cold,  chilly,  praying  Camaldolese  monk  left  us  here. 
He  bade  none  of  us  farewell. 

At  last  I  had  a  good  place ;  the  whole  coupe  was  mine  ;  I 
could  sit  alone  and  gaze  well  pleased  at  the  fine  mountains  ; 
this  place  was,  in  fact,  too  little  for  two  persons. 

We  were  now  to  be  off  again  ;  our  stout  Englishman  wad- 
dled up  to  me  :  he  too  would  enjoy  the  prospect. 

I  assured  him  that  the  place  was  not  large  enough  for  him. 
"  It  is  unpleasant ! "  said  he,  and  held  on  fast,  although  he 
continued  to  agree  with  me  that  there  was  not  room  for  two ; 
he  therefore  proposed  to  me  that  I  should  creep  into  the  dili- 
gence ;  but  I  told  him  that  it  was  just  for  the  sake  of  enjoying 
nature  alone  that  I  had  chosen  this  place. 

"  I  will  also  remain  here  for  the  sake  of  enjoying  nature," 
said  he. 

We  had  only  driven  a  short  distance  when  he  shut  his  eyes, 
and  begged  me  to  nudge  him  when  there  was  anything  pretty 
to  be  seen.  I  did  so  a  few  times,  but  then  he  requested  that 
I  would  only  nudge  him  when  there  was  something  very 
unusually  fine. 

I  let  him  sleep. 

At  Assisi,  the  birthplace  of  St.  Francis,  we  visited  the  vil- 
lage church  de  gl'Angeli.  Signora  would  confess. 

Our  Englishman  took  a  guide  to  conduct  him  about  alone 
to  see  the  curiosities,  "  for  he  did  not  see  well  in  company," 
he  said.  The  monk  who  escorted  him  received  neither  money 
nor  thanks.  "  These  fellows  have  nothing  else  to  do  ! "  said 
he,  when  Signora  reproached  him  for  his  meanness.  From 
that  moment  the  connection  between  them  was  colder  ;  from 
that  moment  no  quartet  was  heard  in  the  diligence. 

I  never  before  met  a  person  with  such  a  —  yes,  what  shall  I 
call  it  ?  —  such  a  thoughtless  impudence.  Every  one  must 
live  for  him,  every  one  must  conform  themselves  to  his  conven- 
ience ;  he  never  paid  a  compliment  but  it  was  transformed 


TRAVELLING    WITH  THE    VETTURINO.  69 

into  rudeness  as  it  passed  his  lips.  At  last  I  began  to  think 
of  the  wicked  step-mother  in  the  story,  who,  after  her  hus- 
band's daughter  had  returned  home  from  the  well  into  which 
she  had  thrown  her,  and  gold  and  roses  sprang  out  of  her 
mouth  when  she  spoke,  threw  her  own  wicked  daughter  into 
the  well ;  but  when  she  came  up,  she  was  still  worse  than  be- 
fore, and  at  every  word  a  frog  or  a  lizard  sprang  out  of  her 
mouth.  The  more  I  looked  at  the  Englishman,  and  the  more 
I  heard  him  speak,  the  more  certain  was  I  that  he  was  own 
brother  to  the  step-mother's  bad  daughter. 

How  unpleasant  did  he  not  make  the  evening  to  us  in  that 
peaceful  town  Spoleto  ;  where  the  fire  burned  so  brightly  in 
the  chimney ;  where  the  music  sounded  so  sweetly  from  the 
street ;  where  the  people  rejoiced  outside  the  church,  "  E  viva 
Madonna!  E  viva  Jesus  CAristus/" 

We  were  again  in  the  diligence  before  sunrise  ;  and  as  long 
as  it  was  the  cold  morning  I  had  my  place  alone.  It  was  dull 
weather,  but  the  mountains  were  beautiful,  and  many  of  the 
trees  were  green.  One  little  town  after  the  other  rose  above 
us  :  each  one  lay  like  a  sphinx  on  the  mountain,  and  seemed 
to  say :  "  Do  you  know  what  lives  and  moves  here  ? "  We 
passed  quickly  by. 

A  beggar  knelt  down  on  the  road  before  us,  and  kissed  the 
ground.  We  passed  by.  We  met  armed  soldiers,  who  sur- 
rounded a  car  on  which  lay  four  strong,  black-bearded  robbers 
chained  together ;  an  old  crone  was  with  them.  She  sat  at 
the  back,  with  her  face  toward  us ;  she  nodded  to  us,  and 
seemed  to  be  merry  enough.  We  drove  quickly  past  —  we 
were  in  Spoleto. 

A  horrible  looking  fellow,  in  a  dirty  blue  cloak,  and  with  a 
little  red  greasy  cap  on  his  uncombed  hair,  approached  our 
diligence.  I  took  him  for  a  beggar,  and  referred  him  to  the 
party  in  the  other  part  of  the  vehicle  ;  he  went  up  to  one  side 
and  then  to  the  other,  but  was  sent  away  from  both  sides. 

"  That  is  a  passenger,"  said  the  vetturino  ;  "  it  is  a  nobile 
from  Rome  ! "  But  we  all  protested  against  having  him  for 
a  neighbor.  He  looked  exactly  like  patient  Job,  when  he 
scraped  himself  with  a  potsherd. 

He  then  got  up  beside  the  vetturino,  and  my  prospect  was 
now  completely  cut  off. 


JO  *   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

When  at  home,  and  sitting  on  a  soft  sofa,  we  do  not  dream 
of  travelling  thus  in  Italy ;  we  then  only  see  handsome  people  ; 
the  sun  then  shines  continually  between  the  vines  and  cy- 
presses ;  the  body  feels  no  weariness.  Even  the  fresh  air  that 
came  to  me  was  infected  with  the  smell  of  the  nobilc's  clothes. 

At  the  next  station  I  gave  up  the  coupe  to  him,  sat  by  the 
side  of  the  vetturino,  drank  in  the  air,  and  looked  on  the 
charming  mountain  scenery. 

The  road  went  in  a  zigzag  up  Monte  Somma  ;  we  had  oxen 
before  the  diligence ;  the  fountains  rippled  between  the  large 
stone  blocks ;  some  yew-trees  were  quite  green  as  in  spring  ; 
and  where  the  trees  were  old  and  leafless,  and  the  ivy,  so  fresh 
and  luxuriant,  wound  about  the  trunks  and  branches,  even  to 
the  extremest  point,  so  that  the  trees  appeared  in  their 
richest  verdure  ;  the  whole  crown  of  the  tree  was  a  swelling 
green. 

Pretty  girls  ran  alongside  the  diligence,  and  offered  us  fruit. 
The  ox-driver  sang  his  canzonet,  and  whistled  a  merry  cho- 
rus to  it  I  sprang  down  from  my  seat ;  my  heart  exulted  at 
the  picturesque  beauty  around  us. 

Down  in  the  clefts  of  the  mountain  lay  the  ruins  of  two  water- 
mills  ;  a  large,  black  bird  of  prey  darted  out  of  the  thicket. 
All  was  wild  and  solitary  ;  rain  clouds  hung  in  the  air  above 
us;  mists  arose  gently  from  the  clefts  of  the  mountains. 
Step  by  step  the  heavily-loaded  diligence  moved  on. 

The  vetturino  declared  that  we  could  not  arrive  at  Terni 
in  time  enough  to  visit  the  water-fall.  I,  who  had  seen  it  on 
a  previous  journey,  was  resigned.  The  Englishman,  on  the 
contrary,  raved  ;  and  this  time  it  was  not  without  reason.  He 
•swore,  he  stormed,  he  would see  the  water-fall. 

It  was  pitch  dark  when  we  reached  Terni,  but  the  English- 
man would  have  his  way.  He  called  for  a  guide,  had  two 
lanterns  lighted,  got  upon  an  ass,  and  ordered  them  to  con- 
duct him  to  the  water-fall. 

"  But  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  see  it  with  two  lanterns." 

"  Then  we  can  take  three,"  he  replied,  and  rode  away. 

The  guide  looked  extremely  pleased  with  the  whole  arrange- 
ment ;  it  was  certainly  the  first  time  that  he  ever  saw  the- 
water-fall  by  such  a  light 


TRAVELLING    WITH  THE    VETTURINO.  *J\ 

How  they  managed  to  place  the  two  or  three  lanterns  by 
that  gigantic  fall  I  know  not ;  but  the  Englishman  said,  when 
he  returned,  that  the  water-fall  at  Terni  was  not  worth  the 
trouble  of  going  all  that  way  to  see  ;  he  had  viewed  it  both 
from  above  and  below,  but  it  was  a  poor  affair. 

•We  were  to  be  off  again  at  three  o'clock  next  morning,  the 
vetturino  informed  us,  for  the  road  was  bad,  and  we  had  our 
longest  day's  journey  to  make,  and  we  must  reach  Nepi  before 
it  was  dark,  as  the  country  round  about  there  was  unsafe. 
Another  vetturino  with  his  party  joined  us  ;  but  still  we  were 
not  in  sufficient  force. 

The  rain  poured  down  in  torrents,  the  road  was  deep  and 
heavy,  it  was  quite  dark.  We  heard  a  deep  hollow  sound 
from  the  mountains  ;  it  was  the  herdsmen  who  blew  their 
conch-shells  to  call  their  flocks  together. 

We  passed  the  mountainous  town  of  Rocca  at  day-break. 
It  is  very  picturesquely  situated ;  the  country  around  had 
the  appearance  of  the  Tyrolean  mountains  in  the  summer  time. 
Every  bush,  every  tree  was  green  ;  the  rain  had  refreshed  the 
grass  and  leaves.  The  ivy  had  entwined  itself  in  rich  garlands 
around  the  thick  trunks  of  the  trees,  and  about  the  cliffs.  The 
town  itself  hung  like  a  swallow's  nest  on  the  front  of  the  rock. 
The  yellow  Tiber  wound  its  way  along  in  the  deep  below. 

Our  Englishman  slept ;  Signora  did  the  same ;  but  they 
looked  the  more  lively  for  it  when  we  afterwards  descended  at 
Atricoli,  a  town,  the  pavement  in  which  seems  to  have  been 
laid  down  during  an  earthquake.  The  inn  was  so  filled  with 
dirt  that  I  preferred  to  eat  in  the  stable,  where  the  smell  was 
at  least  pure,  rather  than  in  the  greasy  rooms. 

The  prospect,  on  the  contrary,  was  splendid  in  the  extreme. 
The  mountains  had  a  bluish-green  tone  ;  the  valleys  extended, 
deep  and  fruitful.  That  splendor  —  and  this  filthiness  !  Yet 
it  is  truly  said  that  nothing  is  perfect  in  this  world.  But  in 
truth  both  conditions  were  here  as  complete  as  can  be  imag- 
ined. The  Englishman  was  so  also,  in  his  way  ;  he  went  pry- 
ing about  after  food  amongst  the  new  vetturino's  passengers, 
and  regaled  himself  with  the  best  pieces  that  were  set  before 
him.  He  became  rude  toward  our  peaceful  ecclesiastic,  and 
began  to  speak  in  an  uncivil  manner  to  Signora. 


77  A   POET'S  BAZAAK. 

Unpleasant  company,  bad  weather,  miserable  roads,  and 
poor  horses ;  everything  was  united  to  make  the  journey  a 
penitential  one.  The  sun  would  not  shine  into  my  heart,  nor 
would  it  shine  upon  the  landscape  around  me  ;  and  the  extent 
of  country  which  we  had  just  passed  lay  in  the  most  charming 
sunshine  when  I  was  last  here.  But  nature  doubtless  thought 
thus :  "  For  that  party  yonder  I  need  not  put  on  my  best ;  and 
the  poet  has  seen  how  beautiful  it  can  be  here.  He  has  sung 
my  praise,  he  will  not  do  it  better !  "  and  so  she  continued  in 
her  rainy,  phlegmatic  humor. 

The  vetturino  declared  that  the  road  was  now  so  bad  that 
we  could  not  reach  Nepi  by  daylight ;  it  was  too  dangerous 
to  drive  there  in  the  dark  ;  we  must,  therefore,  pass  the  night 
in  Civita  Castellane. 

We  passed  Monte  Soracte,  of  whose  snows  Horace  has  sung ; 
and  our  night  quarters  lay  before  us,  with  old  bush-grown 
walls,  almost  covered  with  creeping  plants.  The  water  rushed 
in  a  feathery  foam  over  the  cliffs.  Civita  Castellane  is  one 
of  those  towns  that  appear  handsome  as  we  pass  them,  but  it 
is  an  uncomfortable  place  to  reside  in.  We  put  up  at  Albergo 
Croce  di  Malta,  an  old  cloister,  formerly  belonging  to  the 
monks  of  St.  Francis,  but  now  converted  into  an  inn.  From 
the  street  we  entered  at  once  into  the  vaulted  stable.  It  ap- 
peared as  if  it  had  been  a  chapel  before  ;  a  high,  steep  stair- 
case led  to  the  guests'  rooms.  Cats  and  fowls  sprang  about. 
The  doors  hung  on  one  hinge  only,  or  else  were  entirely  with- 
out. The  women  of  the  house  sat  and  plaited  their  long  hair, 
and  scarcely  knew  whether  they  ought  to  receive  us  or  not 

I  went  about  a  little,  and  looked  over  the  building  ;  every- 
thing was  in  the  greatest  disorder  :  in  some  of  the  rooms 
there  stood  beds  without  bed-clothes  ;  wet  clothes  were  hung 
up  on  poles  ;  in  others  lay  broken  furniture,  or  there  were  jars 
ind  pots  piled  up  with  Heaven  knows  what.  I  descended 
.nto  a  narrow  yard,  inclosed  by  four  dingy  piazzas  ;  in  the 
middle  of  the  yard  was  a  deep  well ;  bats  flew  by  dozens  over 
my  head  ;  a  little  wooden  door  stood  ajar  ;  it  could  neither 
be  moved  backward  nor  forward.  I  put  my  head  in  ;  it  was  a 
cold,  damp  church.  I  saw  the  high  windows,  but  everything 
within  was  veiled  in  darkness.  I  was  not  alone ;  I  heard 


TRAVELLING    WITH  THE    VETTURINO.  73 

footsteps  —  I  stepped  aside :  two  men  in  black,  with  broad- 
brimmed  hats,  like  those  the  Jesuits  wear,  entered  the  arch- 
way. 

"  Viva  Giesu  sanguine!"  said  they,  quite  softly  as  they 
passed  me.  I  followed  slowly  after  them. 

When  I  came  up  again,  I  heard  that  it  had  fallen  to  my  lot 
to  share  my  room  that  night  either  with  the  nobile  or  the 
Englishman.  I  protested  against  the  arrangement,  and  took 
refuge  with  the  young  priest.  He  had  got  a  sort  of  pigeon- 
house  to  sleep  in  ;  and  I  asked  if  I  might  not  prepare  myself 
a  bed  on  some  chairs  with  him. 

"  But  I  have  some  religious  ceremonies  "  —  he  began. 

I  begged  him  not  to  think  of  me  at  all,  for  that  matter,  as  I 
should  fall  asleep  directly.  I  now  hastily  put  together  a  few 
chairs  side  by  side  ;  the  priest,  Signora,  and  her  husband,  all 
three  helped  me  to  drag  in  the  bed-clothes  —  it  was  a  horrible 
couch  !  In  the  midst  of  this  arrangement  came  the  English- 
man ;  he  was  red  in  the  face,  and  angry  because  I  would  not 
sleep  in  his  company. 

"  Will  you  leave  me  in  this  robber  hole  ? "  said  he.  "  Am 
I  to  lie,  and  be  murdered  alone  !  The  door  won't  lock ;  there 
is  a  closet  in  the  room  with  stairs !  In  the  adjoining  room 
there  are  a  monk  and  a  peasant  —  they  look  most  wretched  ! 
Shall  I  lie  there,  and  be  murdered  alone  !  You  are  not  a 
good  comrade ;  I  shall  not  speak  to  you  during  the  whole 
journey !  " 

I  thanked  him  for  it. 

It  was  an  unpleasant  evening  ;  and  on  the  same  evening  — 
but  I  did  not  know  it  then  —  my  tragedy,  "  The  Moorish 
Girl,"  was  performed  for  the  first  time  in  Copenhagen.  The 
public  were,  certainly,  much  better  satisfied  that  evening  than 
the  author. 

Although  we  were  two  companies  of  travellers,  who  intended 
to  depart  together  the  next  morning,  yet  all  the  people  in  the 
inn  advised  us  to  take  an  escort  with  us  to  Nepi,  where  we 
expected  to  arrive  at  sunrise. 

At  three  o'clock  we  were  all  up  ;  four  horses  belonging  to 
the  party  forming  our  escort,  tramped  outside  the  hotel.  The 
rain  poured  down ;  our  Englishman  not  ready,  and  when  he 


74  A  POET'S  BAZAAR. 

was,  he  began  a  scene  of  abuse  with  the  hostess,  and  then 
with  the  chambermaid. 

At  length  we  set  off ;  two  horsemen  rode  before,  and  two 
behind.  When  we  reached  the  gates  we  met  the  Roman  dili- 
gence, which  goes  by  way  of  Forti  to  Bologna ;  it  also  was 
under  escort. 

We  passed  a  long  bridge,  "  Ponte  del  Cujoni,"  as  the  vet- 
turino  called  it,  and  said  that  under  this  bridge  the  rascally 
thieves  concealed  themselves  when  they  saw  that  travellers 
had  soldiers  with  them.  How  far  it  was  safe  to  take  this  way 
I  dare  not  venture  to  determine  ;  but  I  certainly  regarded  the 
whole  as  an  agreement  between  the  people  at  the  inn,  the 
vetturino,  and  the  soldiers,  for  the  latter  earned  a  little  money 
by  it  Neither  now,  previously,  nor  afterward,  have  I  ever 
been  attacked  in  Italy,  for  we  assuredly  may  travel  as  safely 
here  as  in  England,  or  France. 

It  was  almost  broad  day  when  we  arrived  at  Nepi,  a  town 
which  may  pass  for  a  first-rate  specimen  of  filthiness  and  ruin  ; 
the  large  palaces  appeared  as  if  they  were  deserted  by  human 
beings,  and  abandoned  to  rats  and  bats.  Spiders'  webs,  cov- 
ered with  thick  dust,  hung  in  every  niche  and  corner.  The 
rain,  however,  ceased  during  our  stay  here,  but  the  gray 
atmosphere  hung  like  a  heavy  leaden  dome  above  us. 

There  was  a  strange  solitude  amongst  the  final  branches  of 
the  mountains.  At  length  we  came  to  the  last  station,  La 
Storta,  a  little  hamlet,  a  few  hours'  drive  from  Rome. 

The  first  and  only  inn  here  looks  like  a  common  stable ; 
the  kitchen  and  guests'  room  is  in  one.  The  walls  are  painted 
with  wretched  landscapes,  just  as  one  sees  them  in  a  bad 
magic  lantern,  with  thick  strokes  and  gross  colors,  glowing 
and  imperfect  as  in  a  colored  ABC  book.  All  the  light 
comes  in  through  the  door.  In  the  middle  of  the  floor  stood 
a  large,  square  iron  box  with  fire  in  it,  and  by  the  side  of  it  a 
deal  table  and  benches  for  the  guests.  Bunches  of  brackens 
hung  under  the  ceiling  to  attract  the  flies,  probably  that  they 
might  not  spoil  the  paintings.  Poultry  and  bottles  had  their 
place  on  the  floor  j  the  smell  of  cookery  filled  the  room,  and 
we  saw  everything  in  a  light  tone  of  smoke  from  the  chimney. 
The  prospect  through  the  door  was  bounded  by  a  gravel-pit 


TRAVELLING    WITH  THE    VETTURINO. 


75 


and  a  dung-hill,  with  living  turkeys.  The  diligence  and  bag- 
gage-wagon filled  up  the  remaining  space. 

Our  Englishman  went  immediately  to  the  fire-place,  looked 
at  the  different  dishes,  and  at  once  took  what  was  ready,  and 
what  he  thought  was  best ;  but  the  hostess  of  La  Storta  turned 
on  her  heel,  and  in  a  moment  snatched  the  piece  he  had  taken 
out  of  his  hand,  her  flashing  eyes  measuring  him  from  top 
to  toe.  He  pushed  her  aside.  She  asked  if  he  were  mad, 
and  then  showed  him  the  meat  he  had  ordered,  which  was 
still  quite  raw  in  the  pan.  He  pinched  her  fat  arm,  and  she 
raised  her  kitchen  knife. 

Her  husband,  a  little  thick  man,  ran  up,  held  her  round  the 
waist,  and  lifted  her  from  the  floor.  She  waved  the  knife 
about,  and  a  broad  stream  of  words  flowed  through  the  house. 
The  Englishman's  face  was  red  as  fire  ;  he  seized  a  rush 
chair,  and  held  it  before  him. 

We,  however,  managed  to  get  peace  restored,  and  then  he 
began  to  eat.  He  ate  as  much  as  three  persons. 

"  I  shall  eat  for  two,"  said  he.  "  I  shall  eat,  for  I  am  vexed  ; 
eat,  yet  only  pay  three  paoli." 

The  hostess,  however,  demanded  six  paoli ;  the  vetturino, 
whose  boarder  the  Englishman  was  at 'all  meals,  complained 
aloud.  We  took  the  vetturino's  part,  and  the  Englishman 
loaded  the  poor  fellow  with  abuse. 

"  He  shall  have  no  drink  money  !  "  said  he.  "  I  am  dis- 
pleased with  him  ;  I  am  dissatisfied  with  the  food  ;  dissatisfied 
with  the  company  !  " 

"  With  the  company  ?  "  asked  Signora. 

"  Certainly,"  said  he,  "  you  are  always  chattering.  Snur-r-r 
—  how  it  clatters  !  and  your  husband  is  stupid  ;  he  is  dumb, 
he  has  no  education,  no  refinement  1 " 

"  No  education  ! "  replied  Signora.  She  became  quite  pale, 
put  her  arms  a-kimbo ;  "  no  refinement !  Husband,  take 
your  academical  certificate  out  of  your  pocket,  and  show  him 
that  you  have  education." 

Her  little  husband  was  just  as  pale  as  herself ;  he  said  not 
a  word ;  his  eyes  stared  wildly  around.  He  took  out  his 
pocket-book,  and  unfolded  a  paper  which  he  held  out  before 
the  Englishman. 


76  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

"  Read,"  said  Signora,  "  read  if  you  can !  —  my  husband 
not  a  man  of  education  !  Englishman,  look  at  me  !  It  is  you 
who  are  an  uncultivated  fellow ;  and  you  say  you  have  lived 
with  princes  1  Oxen  and  dogs  have  been  your  companions, 
maladettal" 

"  I  don't  read,"  shouted  the  Englishman  in  the  midst  of 
her  speech,  and  struck  the  paper,  set  his  arms  a  kimbo  just 
like  Signora,  and  imitated  the  gobbling  of  a  turkey-cock. 

All  at  once  the  hostess  stood  by  the  side  of  Signora  ;  she 
raised  herself  on  one  foot,  her  eyes  glistened,  she  held  a  dish 
of  cauliflower  in  her  hand,  and  the  contents  flew  over  the 
Englishman's  head.  The  hens  on  the  floor  fluttered  wildly 
about :  I  laughed,  some  of  the  company  drummed  on  the 
table  with  their  fingers,  and  two  ladies  belonging  to  another 
vetturino's  party  flew  to  a  side  door. 

From  that  moment  no  one  spoke  to  the  Englishman  ;  he 
got  into  the  diligence,  and  pretended  to  sleep. 

From  La  Storta  begins  the  Campagna  of  Rome,  a  large 
grass-grown  church-yard  —  that  is  the  picture  it  presents.  No 
house  ;  but  the  ruins  of  tombs  without  names,  lie  by  the  way- 
side. The  shepherds  drive  their  flocks  of  sheep  amongst  the 
high  thistles. 

"  Nero's  grave  !  "  cried  the  vetturino,  as  he  pointed  to  a 
monument  close  by  the  road.  We  drove  past.  I  discerned  the 
cupola  of  St.  Peter's  ;  O  !  how  my  heart  beat  at  the  thought 
of  seeing  Rome  again.  I  knew  that  green  Monte  Mario.  We 
rolled  over  Ponte  Molle,  and  were  inclosed  by  the  white  walls 
of  the  vineyards,  until  we  stopped  outside  Porta  del  Popolo. 

The  passports  were  delivered,  we  received  our  bulletta ;  a 
soldier  got  up  alongside  the  other  vetturino,  whilst  the  officer 
bade  us  follow  to  the  custom-house.  We  followed. 

"  Not  to  the  custom-house,"  was  the  first  word  our  English 
man  said.  He  shouted  it  out  of  the  diligence;  he  ordered 
them  to  drive  him  to  a  hotel,  for  he  would  not  be  dragged 
about  at  a  soldier's  orders. 

u  To  the  custom-house,"  we  all  cried,  and  the  vetturino 
drove  thither. 

In  the  Englishman's  portmanteau  there  was  found  a  number 
cf  wax-candle  ends.  *'  I  have  brought  them  from  the  inns 


ARRIVAL  AT  ROME.  JJ 

I  have  slept  in ;  they  stand  in  the  account,  and  are  paid  for, 
and  I  take  with  me  what  belongs  to  me." 
Here  we  took  leave. 


V. 

ARRIVAL  AT  ROME. 

ROME  is  certainly  the  only  city  in  which  a  stranger  without 
family  or  acquaintance  can  settle  and  be,  as  it  were,  at  home. 
A  tranquil  mind  may  live  here  as  solitary  and  lonely  as  it  can 
wish,  and  the  most  troubled  spirit  will  find  change  enough, 
for  not  a  day  passes  here  but  it  brings  something  new  to  the 
eye  and  to  the  thoughts. 

A  man  ought  to  live  a  whole  year  in  Rome  to  be  able 
rightly  to  conceive  the  picture  of  this  first  city  of  the  world, 
which  receives  its  peculiar  coloring  from  each  successive  sea- 
son of  the  year.  It  is  just  as  interesting  to  see  Rome  at  har- 
vest time,  when  the  dancing  girls  come  from  the  vine  fields, 
as  it  is  to  view  it  in  the  days  of  the  Carnival,  when  the  merry 
maskers  fill  the  streets.  One  must  be  in  Rome  when  the 
snow  lies  on  the  mountains,  and  the  sentinel  stands  on  his 
post  with  the  fire-pot  before  him,  whilst  the  bare-legged  boys 
put  their  feet  on  the  ice  and  say  it  burns.  One  must  be  in 
Rome  in  the  glowing  summer  heat,  when  the  cooling  fountain 
attracts  the  singing  crowd  about  it  in  the  evening. 

The  traveller  from  the  North,  who,  as  he  rolls  into  the  city, 
thinks  that  he  shall  see  a  place  that  will  remind  him  of 
Nuremberg,  or  of  some  still  more  ancient  city,  is  not  a  little 
surprised  at  the  animated  sight,  the  beautiful  regularity,  the 
highly  modern  buildings  that  present  themselves  to  his  view. 
We  at  once  see  a  large  handsome  place,  with  obelisk  and 
fountain,  elegant  hotels,  noble  terraces  with  newly  carved 
statues  and  bass-reliefs;  young  odor-spreading  acacias  form 
zigzag  avenues  one  above  the  other.  All  the  great  world  roll 
past  in  splendid  equipages  ;  English  ladies  and  Roman  dan- 
dies display  themselves  on  horseback.  The  only  thing  that 
could  disturb  this  modern  picture  would  be,  if  a  couple  of 
the  cardinals'  red-painted,  clumsy  carriages  were  to  come 


78  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

past,  with  the  coachman  and  footman  in  perukes  and  three- 
cornered  hats. 

Toward  the  gate  of  the  city  are  three  streets,  called  Bab- 
buino,  II  Corso,  and  Ripetta ;  the  middle  one  is  II  Corso,  in 
which,  during  the  Carnival,  horse-races  and  driving  take 
place.  It  is  a  fine  street,  with  broad-flagged  foot-pavement, 
shops,  churches,  and,  above  all,  plenty  of  passers  by.  Let  us 
drive  through  it,  turn  into  one  of  the  side-streets  on  the  left, 
and  we  are  then  in  the  so-called  Spanish  Place. 

They  tell  us  that  the  Tiber  once  rose  so  high  that  it  car- 
ried a  boat  up  to  this  place  ;  suddenly  the  water  sank,  and 
the  boat  remained  there,  just  where  the  fountain  now  is. 
Michael  Angelo,  who  was  ordered  to  make  a  drawing  for  this 
fountain,  took  his  design  from  the  stranded  boat :  so  we  now 
see,  in  the  centre  of  the  round  basin,  a  stone  boat  out  of  which 
the  water  flows. 

Behind  the  fountain  rises  a  flight  of  stone  stairs  ;  they  are 
as  broad  as  a  street,  and  as  high  as  the  neighboring  houses. 
It  is  the  so-called  Spanish  Stairs,  which  lead  to  the  French 
cloister  for  nuns,  to  the  French  academy,  as  well  as  to  the 
finest  and  most  frequented  promenades. 

These  stairs  once  bore  a  disreputable  name,  in  consequence 
of  the  midnight  assaults  that  took  place  there.  Now  that 
lamps  have  been  erected,  and  a  soldier  set  on  guard,  such 
things  are  no  longer  heard  of;  and  yet  the  lamps  burn  dimly, 
and  the  soldier  always  sits,  in  the  evening,  in  his  watch-box. 
During  the  day  this  place  swarms  with  beggars  with  withered 
limbs  :  some  hop  like  frogs,  using  their  hands  to  spring  on  ; 
others  lie  down  at  full  length,  and  show  their  decrepit  limbs.1 

From  the  topmost  step  of  the  stairs,  by  the  walled  balus- 
trade, we  have  a  prospect  over  half  of  Rome,  with  its  towers 
and  cupolas  ;  but  we  will  not  look  at  it  now  ;  we  will  follow 
the  street  before  us :  it  is  Via  Felice  ;  and  here  two  kings 
nave  their  dwellings.  Where  are  those  palaces  situated  ? 
See,  there  to  the  left,  the  smallest  house  of  them  all,  penned 

1  The  first  who,  during  my  renewed  visit  to  Rome,  addressed  me  with 
kn  "  exccllenza,"  was  just  the  very  character  I  have  drawn  in  The  Impro- 
visatorc,  under  the  name  of  Uncle  Beppo  :  he  lay  here  still,  with  his  grin- 
ning  face* 


ARRIVAL  AT  ROME. 


79 


in  amongst  these  poor  houses,  and  itself  the  poorest  of  them 
all ;  two  windows  without  glass,  only  iron  bars  across,  a  door 
with  a  knocker,  and  the  inscription  "  Villa  Malta."  This  is 
the  King  of  Bavaria's  palace  in  Rome.  Let  us  enter  ;  yes, 
the  miserable  entrance  is  soon  forgotten  •  we  are  in  a  splen- 
did garden,  where  large  laurel  hedges  line  the  walk  on  either 
side  ;  the  pine-trees  lift  their  green  screen  around  the  little 
dwelling,  from  which  we  look  out  over  the  seven-hilled  city  to 
the  blue  Sabine  and  Albanian  mountains. 

The  other  king's  dwelling  lies  to  the  right  in  the  same 
street,  and  looks  something  more  like  a  palace  than  the  for- 
mer, though  the  windows  are  a  little  irregular.  A  dark  pas- 
sage with  stone  steps  leads  up  to  the  rooms,  which  have  only 
bricked  floors  ;  but  the  walls  there  are  covered  with  glorious 
images  and  paintings. 

This  is  Thorwaldsen's  dwelling. 

We  follow  the  street  we  are  in,  and  stand  in  a  large  square, 
so  perfectly  Roman  that  nothing  can  be  more  peculiar  to 
Rome.  We  see  a  part  of  the  Capuchin  cloister,  we  notice  old 
ruined  walls,  we  behold  a  row  of  wretched,  small,  market 
town-houses,  and  behind  these,  one  of  the  most  splendid  pal- 
aces, inclosing  a  treasury  of  paintings  and  sculpture.  To  the 
right  we  have  shops,  genuine  Roman  shops,  ornamented  with 
laurels,  garlands  of  red  and  white  sausages,  pyramids  of 
cheese,  mosaic  work  of  figs  and  oranges,  whole  organs  of  can- 
dles, and  everything  as  tastefully  arranged  as  if  there  were 
some  great  feast  going  forward. 

The  lamp  before  the  image  of  Madonna  at  the  cornei 
burns  day  and  night ;  a  canopy  hangs  above  it ;  a  little  altar 
is  beneath,  and  on  this  stand  flower-pots  with  waving  silk  rib- 
bons, whilst  the  wall  itself  is  covered  round  about  with  votive 
tablets  ;  these  are  small  pictures,  representing  all  the  sick- 
nesses and  all  the  misfortunes  Madonna  has  cured  and  saved 
men  from.  We  see  the  runaway  horses  she  stopped  in  their 
flight,  we  see  children  fall  into  wells  who  yet  are  saved.  It  is 
a  whole  miniature  exhibition  of  miracles  —a  whole  gallery  of 
misfortunes  which  have  a  good  end  ;  there  is  no  place  on 
the  house  itself  for  more  votive  tablets,  and  therefore  the  last 
ve  placed  on  the  opposite  wall. 


80  A    POET'S  BAZAAR. 

But  we  must  take  a  look  at  the  square  itself.  In  the  centre 
of  it  stands  a  mighty  stone  Triton,  who  with  puffed-out  cheeks 
blows  in  the  conch-shell,  so  that  the  jet  of  water  rises  many 
yards  in  the  sunshine,  and  plays  like  a  prism,  with  the  colors 
of  the  rainbow.  Splendid  white  oxen,  with  horns  an  ell  long, 
lie  here  detached  from  the  wagons ;  groups  of  peasants,  with 
variegated  ribbons  around  their  pointed  hats,  stand  and  play 
mora ;  girls  so  healthy-looking  and  handsome,  with  golden 
combs  in  their  glistening  black  hair  are  looking  at  a  couple  of 
dancers.  The  tambourine  sounds  —  it  is  merry  to  see  and 
hear.  The  Capuchin  monk,  who  goes  past  with  his  beggar's 
wallet  on  his  back,  looks  askant  with  a  smile  at  the  happy 
group. 

Yes,  here  we  are,  in  the  heart  of  Rome !  In  this  quarter 
strangers  generally  live ;  here  we  will  also  stay,  and  from 
hence  make  our  excursions  and  see  —  yes  the  whole  in  detail, 
as  it  revealed  itself  to  me  in  the  most  lively  manner. 


VI. 

THE   BORGHESE    FAMILY. 

THE  Church  of  San  Carlo  is  in  the  street  II  Corso  ;  song 
and  music  sounded  through  the  high  arches  ;  a  thousand 
lights  were  borne  in  procession  ;  a  white,  gilded  coffin  with 
a  sky-blue  lid  stood  on  a  high  .  tressel,  surrounded  by  can- 
delabras  with  burning  censers  :  but  no  earthly  dust  lay  in  this 
coffin  !  In  the  Church  of  Maria  Maggiore,1  in  the  rich  tombs 
of  the  Borghese  family,  reposed  Guendalina  Borghese  Talbot ; 
here,  before  this  empty  sarcophagus,  expensive  masses  for  the 
soul's  repose  were  read,  and  the  poor  wept  for  her  they  had 
lost. 

In  the  last  months  of  the  year  1840,  the  angel  of  death 
sailed  every  night  up  the  yellow  Tiber,  landed,  and  traced  with 
rapid  steps  the  narrow  streets,  to  the  house  of  the  poor,  and 

1  One  of  Rome's  most  important  and  handsomest  churches  ;  its  forty 
Ionic  pillars  of  Grecian  marble  are  from  the  temple  of  Juno  Lucina:  tba 
ceiling  is  gilded  with  the  first  gold  that  came  from  Peru  to  Europe. 


THE  BORGHESE  FAMILY.  8l 

to  the  palace  of  the  rich ;  and  wherever  he  came,  he  wrote  the 
sign  of  death  over  one  head. 

In  the  silent  streets  by  night,  in  the  noisy  crowd  by  day,  but 
not  visible  to  mortal  eye,  the  angel  of  death  passed  up  the 
narrow  brick-built  stairs  and  up  the  broad  marble  flags. 

In  Via  Ripetta,  one  of  the  three  straight  streets  which  lead 
from  Piazza,  del  Popolo,  there  is  a  small  uninhabited  house  ; 
an  ample  open  bow  front  forms  the  two  uppermost  stories,  so 
that  from  the  windows  of  the  Palazzo  Borghese,  where  one 
wing  looks  toward  the  narrow  side-street,  one  can  see  through 
this  bowed  front  into  Via  Ripetta,  see  the  yellow  Tiber,  that 
part  of  it  where  the  ferry  is  ;  the  opposite  shore,  the  Church  of 
St.  Peter,  and  even  the  distant  hills.  The  chamber  in  the  Pa- 
lazzo Borghese,  from  whence  we  have  this  prospect,  belongs  to 
the  great  picture  gallery  which  extends  through  several  sa- 
loons :  here  Leonello  Spada's  concert  sends  forth  its  everlast- 
ing tones ;  here  the  red  evening  sky  never  fades  over  Lot  and 
his  daughters  ;  Gerardo  delle  Notti  called  them  into  life 
with  soul  and  flame ;  the  golden  shower  pours  down  on  Da- 
nae's  lap  with  that  metallic  clang  which  Raphael  alone  could 
impart  to  it. 

Through  these  saloons  the  angel  of  death  passed  in  the 
night,  with  large,  expanded  wings  which  covered  and  concealed 
everything  behind  them.  See !  on  his  brow  the  star  shines 
and  predicts  for  us  an  immortality.  He  is  no  skeleton,  but  a 
daring  youth  who  boldly  cuts  the  thread  of  life. 

Through  these  saloons  the  angel  of  death  sped.  Domeni- 
chino's  sybil  seemed  to  raise  her  eyes !  Caesar  Borgia,  to 
whom  Raphael  has  given  immortality,  would  have  stepped  out 
of  his  frame ;  but  death's  angel  swept  silently  onward,  up  the 
broad  staircase,  between  the  noble  statues. 

A  son  of  the  Borghese  race  was  ordained  to  die.  And  the 
crape  veil  was  fixed  to  the  rich  hatchment ;  but  before  it  was 
hung  up,  the  angel  of  death  came  again  ;  it  sought  the  mother 
who  wept  for  her  child ;  he  kissed  her  bosom  and  she  was 
dead  —  mother  and  son  were  dead. 

The  poor  wept !     There  was  sorrow  in  the   cottage,  there 
.was  wailing  in  the  rich  palace  of  the  Borghese  ;  but  there  still 
lived  two  sons.     And  death's  angel   came   again  ;    one   son 
6 


82  A   POET'S  BAZA  AX. 

more  must  die  ;  at  last  one  remained,  but  sorrow  was  at  his 
heart,  and  fever  in  his  blood. 

"  Where  is  my  brother  ? "  he  asked  ;  and  at  the  same  mo- 
ment they  bore  the  corpse  of  his  brother  through  the  gates 
of  the  palace. 

No  answer  was  given :  the  angel  of  death  kissed  the  ques- 
tioner's lips.  He  also  was  dead  ! 

There  was  weeping  and  wailing  in  the  rich  and  m  ignifi- 
cent  palace  of  the  Borghese ;  the  best,  the  kindest  mother 
was  dead,  and  with  her,  three  sons  !  Eternal  Rome  shed  tears 
—  its  poets  sang  to  the  harp  their  dirge  of  sorrow  ;  one 
touched  my  heart,  I  give  it  here  :  — 

SONETTO. 

"  La  Morte  della  Principessa  Guendalina  Borghese  Talbot,  seguita  da 
quella  di  tre  suoi  FiglL 

"Presso  al  Tamigi  un  Fior  di  Paradiso 

La  Fe  piantb  con  somma  cura  un  giorno ; 
Bello  ci  crebbe  in  quel  suol  piii  d'un  narciso : 
Tanto  era  in  suo  candor  di  grazie  adorno ! 

u  Quindi  la  Carita  fiammante  in  viso 

Del  Tebro  il  trapiantu  nel  bel  soggiorno, 
E  qul  destava  in  tutti  amore  e  riso 
Per  la  fraganza  che  spandea  d'intorno. 

"  Ma  il  grato  olezzo  anchc  su  in  cielo  ascese, 
Onde  averlo  fra  loro  ebber  desio 
L'Alme  ch'ivi  si  stanno  al  gaudio  intese. 

"  Allora  a  un  divin  ccnno  Angiol  partio 

Che  svelto  il  Fior  con  tre  germogli,  il  rese 
All'  amor  de'  beati,  e  in  grembo  a  Dio. 

Di.  F.  F. 


VII. 
THE   CHURCHES   IN   ROME. 

YES,  there  are  no  less  than  three  hundred  and  twenty- 
eight  churches  in  the  city  of  Rome.  To  describe  them 
would  be  just  as  tedious  as  to  read  the  description ;  we  will, 
therefore,  confine  ourselves  to  three,  situated  in  the  same 
quarter :  and  here  let  us  enter. 


THE  CHURCHES  IN  ROME.  83 

Ascending  the  Spanish  Stairs,  we  behold  the  Church  Trinitk 
dei  Monti :  a  crowd  of  strangers  flock  here  every  Sunday  morn- 
ing, to  hear  the  singing  and  music  of  the  holy  sisters.  The 
blind  beggar  holds  up  the  heavy  curtain  before  the  door  with 
his  back,  that  the  crowd  may  enter  with  greater  ease.  He 
rattles  his  tin  box ;  no  one  appears  to  notice  it,  for  the  tones 
of  the  soft  female  voices  are  already  heard  :  it  seems  to  be 
the  weeping  of  angels  dissolved  in  harmony.  No  spiritless 
sermon  disturbs  the  devotion:  the  thoughts  risd;  in  music's 
sound,  to  God. 

The  church  is  light  and  comfortable  ;  the  sun  shines  on  the 
gilded  and  ornamented  walls.  A  trellis  separates  the  congre- 
gation from  the  nuns,  who  sit  around  the  altar,  with  the  poor 
little  girls  they  educate.  Over  the  trellis  is  painted  a  burn- 
ing heart,  encircled  by  a  wreath  of  thorns.  Does  it  mean, 
"The  heart  shall  burn  for  God  in  the  thorns  of  the  earth 
alone?"  or  does  it  signify,  "  My  heart  burns,  but  the  cloister's 
thorns  are  set  around  it  ? " 

With  a  life-enjoying  look,  the  strangers  stare  through  the 
trellis  at  the  imprisoned  doves.  Alas !  which  is  better  :  alone 
with  God  and  one's  self  to  sit  under  the  dark  cypress  in  the 
cloister-garden,  or  to  listen  to  the  fluttering  birds  that  fly  in 
pairs  over  hill  and  dale,  where  the  net  is  outstretched,  and 
the  hunter  takes  his  aim  ?  Ask  not  the  pale  young  nun ! 
Disturb  her  not ;  she  has  wept  her  pains  away,  and  to-day 
she  sings  her  gladness  behind  that  black  barrier. 

They  related  of  one  of  the  sisters,  who  had  once  sung  the 
sweetest  of  them  all,  and  was  palest  of  them  all,  that  strangers 
had  missed  her  one  Sunday  morning ;  that  at  the  same  hour 
two  old  men  dug  her  grave  in  the  cloister-garden ;  and  the 
spade  sounded  —  it  struck  against  the  hard  stone  ;  the  earth 
was  thrown  up,  and  a  marble  figure,  from  the  olden  time,  was 
raised  from  the  earth.  A  handsome  Bacchus,  the  god  of  en- 
joyment, rose  to  the  light  of  day  from  that  grave  which  was  to 
receive  one  who  never  enjoyed  life.  The  grave  also  can  be 
ironical ! 

From  the  Church  Trinita  dei  Monti  we  wander  down  the 
street,  turn  round  the  corner,  and  stand  before  the  Church  of 
»he  Capuchins.  Within  its  walls  are  to  be  found  beautiful 


84  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

paintings ;  in  the  cloister  there  are  cool  walks  ;  they  encompass 
a  little  garden,  where  the  citron-trees  grow,  their  branches 
heavy  with  fruit  ;  but  we  will  not  linger  here.  Beneath  the 
church,  yet  not  under  ground,  is  a  row  of  chapels,  and  these 
we  will  visit  The  sun  shines  in  here  ;  through  the  barred 
windows  the  air  blows  fresh  and  pure,  and  yet  we  are  amongst 
the  dead.  The  floor,  ceiling  —  all  the  small  chapels  here  are 
constructed  entirely  of  human  bones  ;  whichever  side  we  look 
we  see  nothing  but  the  joints  of  bones ;  they  form  rosettes, 
rings,  and  figures.  One  of  the  skulls  has  two  hip-bones, 
placed  in  such  a  manner  beside  it  that  they  look  like  two 
wings.  A  throne  of  bones  is  raised  in  one  of  these  niches : 
two  little  children's  skeletons  "hover  like  angels  above  it,  two 
hip-bones  joined  together,  form  their  wings.  Chandeliers 
made  also  of  human  bones  hang  here,  and  are  drawn  up  and 
down  with  a  small  cord.  Hands  grasping  each  other,  form 
strange  arabesques  ;  but  the  floor  within  each  little  chapel  is  of 
earth,  mixed  with  mould  from  Jerusalem.  The  remains  of  the 
monks  which  are  laid  here  are  taken  up  again  after  a  lapse  of 
eight  years  ;  if  the  limbs  still  hang  together,  the  dead  body  is 
wrapped  in  a  Capuchin's  cloak,  and  set  up  in  one  of  the 
niches,  and  a  bouquet  of  flowers,  or  a  prayer-book,  is  placed 
in  his  hand. 

It  is  strange  to  see  what  an  extremely  different  expression 
can  reside  in  these  mummy-like  physiognomies.  The  monk 
who  shows  you  about,  will  often  point  to  one  of  these  silent 
figures,  and  say,  "  He  was  my  friend  and  brother  in  the  clois- 
ter here  ;  we  were  dear  to  each  other :  pray  for  us." 

The  whole  is  a  memento  mori  never  to  be  eradicated,  and  yet 
the  sight  has  nothing  disagreeable  in  it ;  it  is  the  earthly,  the 
perishable  part  we  see,  but  it  is  present  to  us  in  our  sunshine, 
in  our  fresh  air,  —  it  is  as  if  it  mocked  itself  to  soften  the 
image  of  death  to  others. 

The  third  church  we  will  visit  is  Santa  Maria  degli  AngelL 
It  is  situated  in  the  midst  of  the  ruins  of  Diocletian's  baths, 
which  appear  as  if  they  were  a  part  of  the  old  walls  of  the 
city.  They  occupy  a  considerable  space.  One  part  of  it 
seems  to  serve  as  a  store-house  for  hay,  another  is  transformed 
into  a  large  hospital  ;  close  up  to  this,  through  a  row  of  broken- 


THE   CHURCHES  IN  ROME.  85 

down  arches  and  shattered  walls,  is  seen  an  entrance  as  if  into 
a  chapel.  We  enter,  and  stand  in  one  of  the  largest  and 
handsomest  churches  in  Rome. 

It  is  Diocletian's  bathing  room.  Immense  columns,  each  a 
single  block  of  granite,  still  stand  proudly  and  unchanged 
from  his  time.1 

In  this  church  there  is  something  very  pleasant,  and  refresh- 
ing as  if  one  were  in  the  open  air  under  the  shade  of  the  pine- 
trees,  and  at  the  same  time  all  is  so  solemn,  solitary,  really 
Catholic !  The  walls  display  some  of  the  finest  paintings. 
Here  is  Domenichino's  "  St.  Sebastian,"  and  Carlo  Maratti's 
"  Baptism  of  Christ." 

In  the  chapel-like  building  which  we  pass  through  to  enter 
the  church,  lie  the  remains  of  Carlo  Maratti  to  the  left,  and 
Salvator  Rosa  to  the  right,  with  the  bust  of  each  over  their 
graves.  Opposite  these  two  tombs  are  two  others,  on  which 
the  epitaphs  appeared  to  me  the  most  beautiful  and  full  of 
meaning  that  I  have  hitherto  read.  They  run  thus :  — 

"  Corpus  humo  tegitur, 
Fama  per  ora  volat, 
Spiritus  astra  tenet." 

The  other  is  not  less  significant,  — 

"  Virtute  vixit, 
Memoria  vivit, 
Gloria  vivet." 

In  none  other  of  the  large  churches  in  Rome  do  we  find  such 
solitude  as  here :  we  see  but  a  few  strangers  slowly  moving 
upon  the  marble  floor,  and  a  monk  drawing  the  curtain  aside 
from  one  of  the  hidden  paintings.  The  door  of  the  cloister 
stands  ajar,  and  if  we  have  peeped  in,  we  feel  a  desire  to 
remain  here ;  for  in  the  cloister,  as  in  the  church,  there  is 
nothing  depressing  to  be  seen.  Large,  cool,  refreshing  ar- 
cades inclose  a  garden  full  of  the  largest  cypresses  that  Rome 
can  boast.  I  have  never  seen  any  poplars  higher  or  more 
luxuriant  than  these  trees,  which  cast  their  broad  shade  over 
a  fountain. 

One  feels  an  inclination  to  work  with  the  monk  who  plants 

1  The  eight  columns  are  each  sixteen  feet  in  circumference  and  forty- 
*hrce  in  height. 


86  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

roots  and  herbs  in  the  little  gardens  outside  the  cell.  Every 
garden  here  is  like  an  arbor  of  vine  leaves,  oranges,  and 
lemons.  The  warm  rays  of  the  sun  play  between  the  dark 
green  leaves,  and,  as  it  were,  blend  with  the  golden,  lustrous 
fruit. 

From  this  odorous,  green  chapel  of  nature  the  monk  wan- 
ders into  the  church,  bends  his  knee,  and  praises  his  God  in 
quiet  loneliness. 

VIII. 

FAIRY    PALACES    IN    REALITY. 

"  THE  old  gods  still  live ! "  Yes,  one  can  say  so  in  a  story 
—  but  in  reality  ?  that  is  itself  often  a  romance. 

The  child  who  reads  "  The  Arabian  Nights,"  sees  in  imagin- 
ation the  most  magnificent  enchanted  palaces,  and  feels  happy 
in  his  half-belief;  but  then  comes  the  child  of  maturer  growth, 
and  says,  "  Such  things  are  not  to  be  found  in  reality !  "  and 
yet  they  are  to  be  found  here.  The  Vatican  and  St.  Peter's 
Church  in  Rome  present  a  vastness,  a  pomp,  and  an  appear- 
ance similar  and  equal  to  those  palaces  which  fancy  has  raised 
in  the  old  oriental  book,  "  A  Thousand  and  One  Nights." 
We  must  ourselves  see  them,  and  learn  if  the  old  gods  still  live. 

We  now  stand  in  St.  Peter's  Place,  and  perceive  to  the  right 
and  left  three  rows  of  arcades.  The  church  directly  before  us 
is  in  every  respect  so  vast  that  we  have  no  measure  to  describe 
it ;  it  harmonizes  so  perfectly  with  the  "  place,"  and  with  the 
mighty  Vatican  close  by,  that  we  can  only  say,  "  Yes,  it  is  a 
large  three-storied  building !  "  But  we  look  at  the  crowd  that 
throng  up  the  stairs,  and  which  extend  the  whole  breadth  of 
the  building,  and  they  are  reduced  to  pigmies  as  soon  as 
the  eye  has  conceived  the  proportions  of  the  doors  and  win- 
dows. We  acknowledge  the  magnitude  without  having  as  yet 
understood  it 

In  the  centre  of  the  place  stands  an  obelisk.  There  are 
two  fountains,  one  on  each  side  of  this  obelisk.  Look  at  these 
in  conjunction  with  all,  and,  with  respect  to  all  around  and 
about,  they  are  of  a  suitable  size ;  but  if  we  regard  them  by 


FAIRY  PALACES  IN  REALITY.  87 

themselves  we  see  that  they  are  astonishingly  great  It  is  re- 
lated of  a  foreign  prince,  that  on  seeing  this  immense  mass  of 
water,  he  cried  out,  "  That  is  enough  !  "  imagining  that  this 
extraordinary  display  was  only  made  in  honor  of  him,  and  at 
an  immense  expense,  and  that  it  was  delusion  —  a  brief  appear- 
ance of  reality  ;  but  the  water  continued  to  spring :  and  the 
fountains  spring  yet  with  the  same  freedom  and  fullness.  It 
is  beautiful  to  see,  when  the  sun's  rays  paint  a  rainbow  on  the 
falling  drops. 

From  St.  Peter's  Place  we  proceed  to  the  right  through  a 
closed  passage  into  the  yard  of  the  Vatican,  which  is  encircled 
on  three  sides  by  that  gigantic  building.  In  the  same  great- 
ness of  style  as  St.  Peter's  Church,  and  placed  in  juxtaposition 
with  it,  neither  produced  that  effect  it  must  otherwise  have 
conveyed  to  the  imagination  of  the  beholder. 

The  soldiers  in  the  costume  of  the  Middle  Ages,  look  exactly 
like  the  knave  of  clubs  in  a  pack  of  cards.  They  are  all  hired 
German  troops,  who  keep  guard  in  the  arcades  and  the  yard. 
Around  every  story  there  is  a  gallery  ;  in  the  uppermost  story 
the  walls  are  painted  with  geographical  maps,  la  fresco.  Here 
the  Pope  can  study  the  lands  his  predecessors  have  once 
ruled  over.  The  gallery  beneath  is  a  complete  pictorial  Bible  ; 
it  is  the  so-called  Raphael's  tier.  It  is  only  during  the  few  last 
years  that  they  have  closed  the  open  arches  with  windows. 
The  paintings  are  somewhat  faded  ;  the  arabesques  are  partly 
destroyed  by  exposure  to  the  weather,  nay,  even  scratched  out 
by  mischievous  hands,  or  scribbled  over  with  the  names  of 
travellers  whom  no  one  cares  about.  The  lowest  gallery 
leads  into  that  wing  of  the  palace  which  the  Pope  does  not  in- 
habit, but  which  contains  the  richest  and  most  glorious  treas- 
ures in  the  world. 

The  whole  building,  as  we  know,  consists  of  twenty-two 
court-yards,  and  eleven  thousand  rooms  —  a  romantic  state- 
ment this,  it  will  be  allowed.  A  few  hours'  ramble  here  is  as 
if  one  were  in  an  enchanted  palace.  The  most  daring  fancy 
cannot  in  this  place  invent  anything  new  ;  it  is  controlled  and 
rebuked  by  beholding  reality,  richer  and  rarer  than  its  best 
conceptions. 

Let  us  wander  on. 


88  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

Through  a  trellised  gate  we  enter  a  passage,  so  long  that 
the  distance  is  almost  lost.  Everywhere  else  in  the  world, 
but  not  here,  it  would  be  called  a  rich  museum.  The  floor 
and  walls  present  reminiscences  of  the  olden  times.  We  peep 
through  a  door,  and  are  blinded  by  the  splendor  of  the 
colors  in  the  many  saloons  that  succeed  and  flank  each 
other.  The  ceilings  and  walls  are  loaded  with  paintings,  but 
none  of  them  fix  themselves  in  the  mind  ;  they  produce  an 
effect  like  the  colored  patterns  in  a  kaleidoscope.  This  is 
the  library,  but  where  are  the  books  ?  They  stand  concealed 
in  low  cases  of  white  and  gold.1 

We  peep  through  another  door ;  the  light  streams  through 
the  glass  roof ;  the  walls  and  floor  are  of  polished  marble ; 
splendid  statues  stand  on  both  sides  ;  they  seem  to  have  been 
cut  but  lately  from  the  marble  block,  and  yet  it  is  more  than  a 
thousand  years  since  they  vibrated  to  the  stroke  of  the  chisel. 
One  ought  to  see  these  treasures  by  torch-light :  then  the  mar- 
ble seems  to  receive  life  ;  the  moving  light  makes  the  muscles 
appear  to  swell,  the  folds  of  the  clothes  to  move,  and  the  pale 
face  to  acquire  the  hue  of  health. 

But  we  will  pursue  our  way  up  the  long  passage,  go  up 
some  few  stairs,  and  a  row  of  saloons  with  the  most  beautiful 
reminiscences  of  ancient  times ;  the  one  saloon  richer  and 
more  splendid  than  the  other  attracts  us  ;  we  almost  become 
tired  of  beholding :  how  then  can  we  describe  ?  The  gods  of 
Olympus  still  reign  here :  the  Muses  greet  us  mortals :  all  is 
greatness  and  beauty. 

We  will  only  dwell  on  one  small  space,  and  from  this  we 
must  draw  our  conclusions  of  the  whole. 

We  stand  in  a  small  yard :  the  bright  sun  casts  its  rainbow- 
colored  rays  over  the  high  water-jet,  which  splashes  in  the 
marble  basin.  The  place  is  inclosed  by  open  arches,  and  in 
this  are  displayed  the  world's  far-famed  glories.  Here  stands 
Antinous,  the  Apollo  of  the  Vatican  ;  here  the  Laocoon  writhes 
in  eternal  pain,  encircled  by  snakes ;  here  the  Gladiators  and 
Perseus  of  Canova  inspire  delighted  admiration. 

One  is  as  if  overwhelmed  by  the  greatest  productions  of 
art ;  it  is  a  repose  for  the  mind  and  eye  to  look  through  the 

1  Queen  Christina  of  Sweden's  library  forms  a  considerable  collection. 


FAIRY  PALACES  IN  REALITY.  89 

windows,  and  the  sight  which  yields  repose  is  a  prospect  over 
Rome  and  the  Campagna  to  the  mountains  ;  it  is  a  view  over 
small  flag-paved  yards  or  beautiful  gardens,  which  in  the  win- 
ter time  display  the  most  alluring  verdure.  All  the  avenues 
are  of  laurel-trees  ;  the  roses  appear  to  start  out  from  the  high 
continuous  walls,  the  water  wells  forth  from  artificial  grottoes 
and  caverns. 

Should  we  not  believe  it  a  dream  of  romance  ?  And  yet 
all  here  is  reality,  marvelous  reality. 

Through  a  vestibule  built  in  the  Egyptian  style,  filled  with 
grand  sarcophagi,  each  of  one  single  costly  stone,  we  enter, — 
yes,  what  ?  A  museum  it  cannot  be  called,  it  is  too  small  — 
we  enter  one  of  the  pyramids  of  Egypt.  The  whole  saloon 
is  decorated  like  one  of  the  largest  and  most  magnificent  bur- 
ial chambers  in  the  pyramids  ;  the  walls  are  painted  with  col- 
umns and  tropical  plants ;  the  ceiling  is  arched  like  a  firma- 
ment —  an  African  starry  firmament !  of  the  purest  ultramarine 
color,  and  with  myriads  of  rich  gilded  stars.  We  feel  ourselves 
in  Africa  ;  we  are  in  the  midst  of  the  pyramids,  and  round 
about,  silent  and  dark,  sit  the  strange  images  of  gods  !  In 
the  side  chambers  stand  the  mummies,  some  of  which  are 
freed  from  their  cerements,  others  quite  inclosed  and  concealed 
in  their  painted  chests. 

From  these  shapeless  images  in  stone,  these  glaring  colors 
which  confuse  the  eye,  we  will  go  to  the  most  perfect  works 
that  art  can  boast  We  find  them  in  a  small  picture  gallery,  — 
treasures  that  can  only  have  been  selected  from  a  hundred 
others,  —  and  the  way  thither  leads  through  many  saloons, 
some  with  the  variegated  tapestry  of  the  Gobelins,  for  which 
Raphael  supplied  the  drawings,  others  with  maps,  and  the 
ground-plans  of  towns  painted  in  fresco.  It  is  as  if  every  sa- 
loon in  the  Vatican  would  outvie  the  other,  either  by  its  treas- 
ures of  art  or  by  its  peculiarity. 

We  now  stand  amongst  the  immortal  pictures.  Which  way 
shall  we  turn  —  to  what  room  —  toward  which  wall  ?  There 
we  see  Domenichino's  dying  Jeronimus  hovering  in  the  clouds  ; 
Raphael's  Madonna  del  Foligno,  and  his  last  work  the  Trans- 
figuration. Here,  Perugino,  Giulio  Romano,  Titian,  and  the 
greatest  masters  of  Italy  greet  us.  Strange  enough !  a  small 


OO  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

animal  piece  by  Paul  Potter  is  seen  like  a  little  flower  in 
every-day  life,  amongst  these  glories  and  clouds.  It  stands 
by  the  door,  like  a  modest  guest  in  this  paradise  of  art ;  but 
it  is  not  unworthy  of  its  place. 

Large  folding  doors  open,  and  we  stand  amongst  Raphael's 
painted  poetry,  and  wander  through  saloons  whose  walls  own 
his  immortal  works.  What  nature,  fancy,  and  purity  in  each ! 

And  what  remains,  after  having  seen  this  magnificence, — 
what  remains  of  man's  works  that  can  astonish  us  by  a  greater 
richness  and  splendor  ?  We  pass  through  two  saloons  ;  large 
doors  open  into  what  we  should  call  lofty  churches,  but  here 
they  are  but  chapels ;  they  are  filled  with  splendor,  and 
adorned  with  paintings  ;  but  we  go  on,  lift  a  curtain,  and  stand 
in  St.  Peter's  Church.  All  is  marble,  gold,  and  mosaic  work. 
We  stand  in  the  largest  church  in  the  world ! 

"  Yes,  it  is  great,  but  not  so  great  as  I  expected ! "  is  the 
general  expression  the  first  time  we  enter.  It  is  here,  as  'v 
nature  ;  the  space  is  too  great  for  the  eye  to  measure  it.  Th- 
proportions  are  too  gigantic ;  we  must  first  walk  through  the 
church,  we  must  see  that  mass  of  human  beings  which  seems 
to  fill  the  place  without,  which  moves  here  within  ;  we  must 
approach  the  marble  dove  that  appears  to  hover  in  the  point 
of  view  where  we  stand,  and  then  see  that  we  must  raise  our 
hands  to  be  able  to  touch  it. 

The  mosaic  angels  in  the  dome  appear  to  us  so  insignif- 
icant !  and  yet,  ascending  to  them,  we  find  that  they  are  sev- 
eral yards  in  height :  looking  down,  the  cross  at  the  altar  far 
below  us  towers  aloft  like  one  of  Rome's  palaces. 

We  must  ascend  the  flat  roof  of  the  church,  and  when  we 
are  there  it  is  as  if  we  were  in  a  market-place ;  the  several 
cupolas  appear  like  chapels,  and  the  largest  an  immense 
church.  Round  about  on  the  roof  are  erected  small  houses 
for  the  craftsmen  who  are  at  work  upon  it.  Here  are  furnaces 
and  lime-pits ;  here  is  a  little  town ;  merry  children  play 
about  on  the  great  open  place,  and  climb  up  the  high  parapet 
to  look  over  Rome  and  the  Campagna  to  the  sea  and  moun 
tains. 

We  ought  to  see  St  Peter's  Church  during  the  Easter  week, 
to  see  it  in  the  evening,  and  in  bright  sunshine  !  It  is  per 


FAIRY  PALACES  IN  REALITY.  9! 

fcctly  like  enchantment  to  witness  what  they  call  the  lighting 
of  the  dome  ;  yet  it  is  not  alone  the  dome  and  the  cross  high 
above  it  that  stream  with  lights,  but  it  is  the  whole  immense 
building  with  the  colonnades  around  the  place!  We  see 
everything  in  a  hue  of  fire  ;  the  lamps  are  so  richly  diversi- 
fied, and  placed  in  such  situations,  that  the  whole  architec- 
tural design  stands  forth  confessed.  It  has  a  great  effect,  on 
such  an  evening,  to  go  from  the  illuminated  place  into  the 
church  itself,  where  all  is  night  and  stillness  ;  but  directly 
under  the  dome,  by  the  high  altar,  beams  a  glory  of  several 
hundred  silver  lamps,  placed  on  the  parapet  around  St.  Peter's 
grave.  We  climb  up  to  it,  and  look  down  into  the  chapel 
shining  with  gold  and  silver,  where  the  marble  figure  of  a 
kneeling  Pope  prays  in  silence.  There  is  such  a  peace,  such 
a  devotion  in  the  quiet  of  the  church  and  in  this  venerable 
man's  figure,  that  we  ourselves  are  filled  with  both,  and,  like 
the  Catholic,  feel  a  desire  to  bend  in  adoration  to  the  Invisible 
Almighty. 

We  must  wander  through  this  divine  temple  by  sunlight, 
when  it  is  solitary,  and  the  beautiful  voices  stream  from  the 
side-chapel :  we  must  come  here  during  the  great  festivals : 
the  music  vibrates,  the  incense  perfumes,  thousands  kneel 
down  and  receive  an  old  man's  blessing.  Everything  beams 
with  light,  everything  glows  with  gold  and  colors  !  The  most 
famous  pictures  dispersed  through  Rome's  palaces  are  here 
copied  in  mosaic  work,  and  are  made  altar  pieces.  Yet  one 
altar  here  has  no  painting  or  mosaic  ;  two  gigantic  figures  in 
papal  robes  support  a  throne,  but  no  one  sits  in  it  except  the 
invisible  God.  Immense  marble  statues  stand  forth  from  the 
shining  walls.1 

But  what  does  that  dark  bronze  statue,  under  a  throne 
covered  with  gold  and  purple,  signify  ?  The  papal  guards 
stand  on  each  side,  and  the  people  kiss  the  feet  of  that  bronze 
figure.  It  is  the  image  of  St.  Peter.  It  was  once  Jupiter's  ; 
the  lightning  is  torn  from  his  hand  ;  she  now  holds  the  keys. 

1  Each  statue  here  represents  tne  founder  of  an  order  of  monks  ;  thus, 
we  see  the  prophet  Elias  ;  a  burning  wheel  represents  the  glowing  car  in 
which  he  ascends  to  heaven ;  he  stands  as  the  representative  of  the  Carme- 
lite monks. 


92  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

The  old  gods  live  yet  in  Rome.  The  stranger  bends  his  knee 
to  them  in  the  museum ;  the  people  kiss  their  feet  in  the 
church.  The  old  gods  still  live ;  that  is  the  beginning  and 
the  end  of  the  story. 


IX 

CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  ROME. 

THE  further  the  Swede,  Norwegian,  and  Dane  travels  from 
home,  the  louder  sings  the  heart  of  each  when  they  meet 

"  We  are  one  people,  we  are  called  Scandinavians !  "  When 
I  was  in  Rome,  in  1833,  the  three  nations  kept  their  Christ- 
mas Eve  in  company,  like  one  family.  Song  and  mirth  do 
not  agree  with  the  Roman  solemnity  on  the  Saviour's  natal 
festival,  therefore,  we  could  not  be  merry  within  the  gates  of 
the  city  ;  but  yet  we  did  not  lose  our  pleasure.  No  city  is  so 
tolerant  as  Rome.  They  let  us  have  a  fine  suite  of  rooms  out- 
side the  city  gates  ;  a  large  house  in  the  Villa  Borghese,  in 
the  midst  of  a  grove  of  pines  close  to  the  modern  amphithea- 
tre. We  ornamented  the  saloon  with  garlands  and  wreaths  ', 
the  flowers  we  plucked  from  the  garden.  The  air  was  mild 
and  warm  ;  it  was  a  Christmas  like  a  fine  summer's  day  at 
home. 

We  must  have  a  Christmas-tree,  a  fir-tree,  as  in  the  North  ; 
but  here  it  was  too  valuable  a  treasure.  We  must,  said  they, 
be  contented  with  two  large  orange-trees  which  were  sawn 
from  the  roots,  and  were  full  of  fruit  which  was  not  fastened 
to  the  branches,  but  which  grew  out  of  them.  We  were  about 
fifty  Scandinavians,  including  seven  ladies,  who  wore  wreaths 
of  living  roses  around  their  brows :  we  men  had  wreaths  of 
ivy.  The  three  nations  had  subscribed  to  purchase  presents 
which  were  to  be  gained  by  lottery.  The  best  prize  was  a 
silver  cup,  with  the  inscription,  "  Christmas  Eve  in  Rome, 
l^33 :  "  this  was  a  gift  from  the  three  nations.  And  who  won 
it  ?  I  was  the  lucky  one. 

Toward  midnight  the  elder  part  of  the  company  broke 
up  and  returned  to  Rome.  Bystrom  and  Thorwaldsen  were 
imongst  them,  and  I  accompanied  them. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  ROME. 


93 


The  city  gate  was  locked,  but  that  we  might  enter  we  were 
told  that  we  must  give  three  loud  raps  with  the  knocker,  and 
cry  out,  "  Gli  Scandinavi." 

I  thought  of  Holberg's  comedy,  where  Kilian  knocks  at  the 
gates  of  Troy  ;  and  so  I  took  hold  of  the  knocker,  gave  the 
signal,  and  our  password,  "  Gli Scandinavi" 

A  little  wicket  in  the  gate  was  opened,  and  one  by  one  we 
crept  into  that  city  of  the  world. 

It  was  a  merry  Christmas  !  The  night  was  warm  and  mild 
as  a  summer  night  in  the  North. 

And  now,  the  same  evening,  in  1840,  no  one  had  thought 
of  any  arrangement  for  Christmas. 

Every  one  sat  at  home.  It  was  cold  weather ;  the  fire  in 
the  stove  would  not  warm  my  chamber. 

Thought  flew  far  away  ;  it  flew  toward  the  North. 

Now,  it  whispered,  there  is  the  Yule-tree  lighted  up  with  a 
hundred  parti-colored  lights ;  the  children  exult  in  sweetest 
happiness  !  Now  they  sit  around  the  table  at  home,  sing  a 
song,  and  drink  a  health  to  absent  friends.  There  is  hilarity  in 
the  town,  there  is  mirth  in  the  country,  in  the  old  mansion. 
The  passages  are  ornamented  with  firs  and  lights  ;  carpets 
are  laid  on  the  stairs  ;  the  servants,  neatly  dressed,  trip  busily 
up  and  down.  The  music  sounds,  and  the  procession  begins  ; 
it  proceeds  to  the  large  ball-room  !  O,  Christmas  is  a  merry 
time  in  the  North. 

I  left  my  solitary  chamber !  People  flocked  to  the  Church 
Maria  Maggiore. 

Some  few  lamps  burned  within  the  church.  Men,  women, 
and  children,  who  had  wandered  hither  from  the  Campagna 
and  the  mountains,  sat  and  lay  on  the  steps  leading  to  the 
chapels  and  altars  in  the  side  aisles.  Some  of  the  poor 
folks  had  fallen  asleep  from  very  weariness  ;  others  counted 
their  beads. 

The  candles  were  now  lighted.  The  whole  church  shone 
with  purple  and  gold.  The  incense  spread  its  perfumes,  the 
muoic  resounded,  the  anthem  announced  "  Glory  to  the  new- 
born King  ! "  The  old  Cardinals  bore  the  cradle  of  Christ  on 
their  shoulders  through  the  aisles  of  the  church,  and  the  people 
saw  a  ray  of  glory  around  it,  brighter  than  that  shed  by  the 


94  A    POET'S  BAZAAR. 

the  thousand  lights.  It  was  as  if  the  shepherds  sang,  and  as 
if  the  angels  sang.  And  there  came  peace  and  good-will  in 
the  human  heart. 


X. 

THREE   ROMAN    BOYS. 

WE  find  large  palaces  in  Rome  in  narrow,  winding  streets, 
which,  if  they  stood  in  an  open  place,  would  be  pronounced 
buildings  of  consequence.  I  will  draw  such  a  one  with  pen 
and  ink  ;  and  I  hope  so  correctly,  that  my  readers  will  be  able 
to  find  it  again  when  they  know  that  it  is  in  the  street  Ripetta 
they  must  look  for  it. 

High  piazzas,  with  finely  wrought  marble  pillars,  inclose  a 
little  square  court-yard  ;  statues  stand  between  the  pillars,  and 
in  the  niches  of  the  walls  are  disfigured  marble  images.  The 
walls  are  covered  with  bass-reliefs,  and  above  are  colossal 
heads  of  Roman  emperors.  Grass  and  creeping  plants  hang 
about  the  pedestals,  and  shoot  forth  from  the  folds  of  the  mar- 
ble drapery.  The  spider  has  spun  its  web,  like  a  mourning 
veil,  between  gods  and  emperors.  In  the  yard  lie  cabbage 
stalks,  lemon  peels,  and  broken  bottle  cases.  Earth  has  col- 
lected in  heaps  around  the  sides  of  the  marble  sarcophagi 
that  stand  here  ;  they  once  inclosed  some  of  Rome's  mighty 
men  ;  now,  they  contain  broken  pots,  salad  leaves,  and  earth. 

The  broad  marble  stairs  which  lead  to  the  saloons  of  the 
palace  are  still  dirtier  than  the  yard.  Three  bare-legged, 
half-frozen  beggar-boys  sit  here  in  a  circle  ;  the  one  has  a  rag- 
ged carpet  thrown  over  his  shoulders  like  a  cloak,  and  a  reed 
as  a  tobacco-pipe  in  his  mouth.  The  other  has  a  covering 
for  his  feet  of  rags  bound  together  with  pack-thread.  His 
coat  is  so  large  and  wide  that  it  would  fold  twice  round  the  lad, 
and  I  really  believe  it  serves  him,  in  addition,  for  trousers. 
The  third  has  a  hat  on,  and  for  the  rest  a  waistcoat,  I  believe 
no  more,  unless,  perhaps,  the  slipper  that  lies  at  the  bottom  of 
the  stairs,  may  claim  him  for  its  master.  All  three  are  playing 
at  cards. 

Can  it  interest  you  to  know  a  little  more  of  these  three  young 


7HREE  ROMAN  BOYS.  95 

Romans  or  their  families  ?  Perchance  the  chief  personages 
of  the  family  are  assembled  at  this  moment  on  the  terrace  by 
the  Piazza  del  Popolo.  Here  stands  a  group  of  black-bearded 
men  in  striped  clothes  of  blue  and  white  ;  it  is  a  well-known 
uniform,  to  which  there  is  generally  a  chain  appended,  but  it 
is  usually  worn  around  the  legs.  These  are  the  Roman  galley 
slaves.  The  first  one  resting  there  on  his  spade  is  father  to  the 
boy  who  wears  the  ragged  carpet  as  a  cloak  across  his  shoul- 
ders. Yes,  that  is  the  father !  But  he  is  neither  a  thief  nor  a 
robber  ;  he  is  only  a  scoundrel !  It  is  a  short  story.  To  vex 
his  master  he  became  a  slave.  To  vex  his  master  he  has  placed 
contraband  goods  in  his  wagon,  and  he  took  care  that  they 
should  be  found  ;  for  the  law  in  Rome  demands,  in  such  cases, 
that  horses  and  wagon,  if  even  the  master  be  innocent,  shall  be 
forfeited  and  given  to  the  police.  The  man  becomes  a  slave 
but  the  master  must  give  fifteen  bajocchi  to  support  the  slave  ; 
this  is  a  great  expense.  If  the  fellow  be  industrious,  then 
every  year  of  his  imprisonment  consists  but  of  eight  months, 
and  he  receives  the  highest  payment  for  his  work. 

This  is  the  shrewd  calculation  he  makes,  as  he  leans  on 
his  spade :  — 

"  Master  has  lost  his  wagon  and  horses !  Master  must 
every  day  pay  money  for  my  board  !  I  have  free  lodging,  con- 
stant work,  the  highest  wages,  and  I  am  an  extolled  slave ! 
and  that  is,  perhaps,  more  than  my  son  will  ever  be." 

On  the  promenade  close  by,  rolls  a  light  little  gig.  A  rich 
Frenchman,  of  some  thirty  and  odd  years,  is  driving.  He  has 
been  in  Rome  before ;  it  is  more  than  eight  years  ago.  He 
now  shows  his  young  wife  about  in  the  first  city  in  the  world. 
They  have  just  seen  to-day  a  beautiful  female  statue  by  Ca- 
nova,  and  admired  it ;  and  the  Frenchman  knew  those  graceful 
forms  which  are  now  immortalized  in  marble  —  but  he  did  not 
say  so.  The  beautiful  Giuditta  is  dust ;  her  son  is  the  second 
boy  amongst  the  card-players  ;  he  wraps  himself  up  in  his 
large  coat,  and  the  father  wraps  himself  up  in  his  rich  mantle, 
as  he  hurries  on  along  the  promenade. 

The  third  little  fellow,  with  hat  and  waistcoat !  Yes,  where 
shall  we  find  his  parents  ?  yet  we  have  the  scent. 

Under  a  tree  in  the  avenue  stands  a  little  wrinkled  woman 


Q6  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

with  her  fire-pot  on  her  arm ;  she  begs  for  a  little  money  in 
the  name  of  Madonna !  She  cannot  be  the  boy's  grand- 
mother, still  less  his  mother.  No,  but  she  is  the  only  one  that 
can  tell  us  something  about  him. 

In  the  direction  of  the  bridge  Castel  d'Angelo,  there  is  a 
street  leading  from  St.  Peter's  Place.  In  this  street  there  is  a 
large  building,  and  in  the  walls  there  is  a  movable  niche  dec- 
orated with  the  same  sort  of  stuff  as  the  slaves'  clothes.  Ai 
the  bottom  of  the  niche  there  is  a  soft  pillow.  It  turns  round 
on  a  pivot,  and  close  by  there  is  a  large  bell.  Nine  years  ago 
this  little  wrinkled  woman  came  here,  laid  a  little  bundle  in 
the  niche,  turned  it  round,  rang  the  bell,  and  hastened  away 
This  is  the  Foundling  Hospital. 

The  third  boy  comes  from  thence.  The  old  woman  could 
tell  us  the  whole  story,  but  of  what  use  would  it  be  ?  The 
rich  young  Signora  is  far  away  in  that  floating  Venice,  a  pattern 
of  severity  and  of  pure  morals.  But  her  son  —  he  is  well  off! 
he  sits  on  marble,  and  plays  out  the  trumps. 

These  three  boys  are  good  subjects  for  the  pencil.  The  ex- 
pression in  the  eyes  —  every  movement  —  the  dirty  cards  and 
the  thick  cloud  of  smoke  from  the  cigars  !  That  is  a  group. 

They  are  disturbed  by  a  flock  of  turkeys,  which  two  peas- 
ants, with  long  white  sticks,  drive  up  the  marble  stairs  to  one 
of  the  higher  saloons,  where  the  purchaser  lives,  and  where 
they  will  have  permission  to  waddle  about  for  some  few  days 
on  the  stone  floor  under  the  painted  ceiling  that  displays  the 
rich  arms  of  the  deceased  race. 


XI. 

RELIGIOUS   CUSTOMS. 

MOST  persons  require  some  sensual  provocative,  ere  on 
fixed  days  and  hours  they  are  able  to  raise  their  minds  to  de- 
votion ;  and  the  Catholic  Church  service  has  such  an  in- 
fluence, but  it  loses  too  much  by  the  ceremonies.  It  seems 
as  if  the  Church  had  not  rightly  understood  the  doctrine,  that 
unless  we  be  as  children,  we  cannot  enter  the  kingdom  of 


RELIGIOUS  CUSTOMS.  97 

heaven,  —  for  it  often  regards  its  congregation  as  children, 
who  see  and  believe,  who  live  in  dreams  more  than  in 
thought. 

Every  festival  that  I  have  seen  in  Rome  included  a  really 
fine  idea  or  thought ;  but  the  explication  thereof  was  often,  if 
I  may  use  the  expression,  made  too  corporeal.  They  would 
show  to  the  external  sense  what  only  belongs  to  feeling,  and 
hence,  a  soulless  caricature,  not  a  devotional  picture,  was  pre- 
sented to  view. 

I  believe  that  all  well-educated  Catholics  will  agree  with 
me  in  this ;  for  whenever  my  religious  feelings  have  been 
wounded  at  these  festivals,  I  never  saw  any  other  congrega- 
tion than  people  of  the  very  lowest  class,  whose  mental  con- 
ceptions stand  on  a  level  with  the  child's. 

There  is,  undeniably,  something  beautiful  in  the  idea  that 
Christians  one  day  in  the  year  remember  the  first  Christian 
brethren  who  suffered  and  died  for  the  faith,  and,  as  it  were, 
sealed  its  power  and  holiness  with  their  blood.  Thus  the 
Catholics  have  a  feast  for  the  martyrs,  and  one  of  the  most 
splendid  churches  in  Rome  is  dedicated  to  them.  It  is 
opened  but  once  in  the  year,  the  26th  of  December,  when  all 
within  is  a  blaze  of  light,  and  the  floor  as  well  as  the  way 
thither  is  strewed  with  evergreens ;  but  here  nothing  is  shown 
to  impress  the  thought  of  greatness  of  mind  in  the  martyrs,  or 
of  strength  in  the  belief  which  gave  them  courage  to  offer  up 
their  lives  for  it.  The  death  of  the  martyrs  is  represented  in 
glaring  pictures  round  about :  we  see  a  row  of  horrible  execu- 
tions ;  here  the  breasts  of  a  woman  are  cut  off;  there  one  is 
torn  to  death ;  here  the  eyes  are  plucked  out ;  there  another 
cut  limb  from  limb,  and  then  roasted  or  boiled. 

We  turn  away  from  these  disgusting  scenes  ;  the  mind  feels 
oppressed  by  this  sight,  instead  of  being  filled  by  spiritual 
greatness. 

There  is  something  poetically  beautiful  in  celebrating 
Christmas  as  a  children's  festival  ;  but  the  manner  in  which 
it  is  celebrated  in  the  Church  of  Ara  Cceli  in  Rome,  annihi- 
lates the  beauty  of  the  idea  by  its  material  performance. 

One  of  the  side  chapels  in  the  left  aisle  of  the  church  is 
completely  transformed  into  a  theatre,  with  side  scenes,  wings, 

7 


98  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

and  decorations.  The  scene  presents  a  rural  country.  Here 
sits  a  figure  representing  Madonna,  dressed  in  real  clothes  ; 
on  her  lap  rests  the  infant  Jesus  formed  of  wax,  and  glittering 
with  gold  and  jewels  ;  Joseph  stands  by  her  side,  while  the 
shepherds  bring  their  offerings.  The  Almighty,  surrounded 
by  angels,  painted  on  pasteboard,  is  seen  in  the  clouds. 

The  Papal  soldiers  keep  guard  before  this  exhibition,  which 
is  well  lighted  ;  a  table  is  placed  by  one  of  the  nearest  pillars, 
and  on  this  mothers  set  their  children,  and  those  quite  little 
ones  of  five  or  six  years  :  one  child  then  runs  over  a  poem 
concerning  the  child  Jesus  or  Christmas.  It  frequently  hap- 
pens that  the  little  preacher  either  becomes  afraid,  and  stops 
suddenly,  or  raises  his  little  voice  so  comically,  that  the  whole 
audience  begin  to  laugh.  But  it  is  not  only  one  that  speaks  ; 
we  often  see  two,  or  even  three  little  girls  placed  side  by  side, 
who  carry  on  a  dialogue  in  verse  about  Bambino's  beauty. 

This  festival  is  at  its  highest  on  the  6th  of  January.  I  was 
there :  it  was  a  rainy  day,  with  a  sirocco  ;  the  strong  perfume 
of  the  incense  was  oppressive,  being  blended  with  the  per- 
spiration and  breath  of  the  garlic-eating  peasants,  and  the 
dirty,  ragged  beggars.  I  felt  myself  quite  unwell.  The  festi- 
val, however,  went  on.  A  little  girl  said  her  verse  boldly  ;  a 
mass  was  sung,  and  then  the  procession  through  the  church 
to  the  little  theatre  commenced.  One  of  the  monks  climbed 
up  to  it,  took  the  infant  Jesus  out  of  Madonna's  arms,  and 
then  crawled  down  again  with  it ;  but  at  this  moment  a  whole 
choir  of  music  joined  in  with  the  liveliest  airs.  Cymbals  and 
drums  resounded  through  the  church  ;  it  was  a  march  like 
one  in  an  opera  buffa !  It  was  intended  to  express  the 
heart's  jubilee,  that  an  infant  Saviour  was  given  to  mankind  ; 
but  this  scene  made  my  blood  run  chill.  I  felt  myself  seized 
with  disgust,  and  sought  the  door.  Some  peasants,  who  at- 
tempted to  cross  the  aisle  through  which  the  procession  was 
to  pass,  were  struck  on  the  chest  by  two  powerful  monks,  so 
;hat  they  staggered  back  ;  but  I,  as  a  stranger,  was  allowed 
to  pass.  I  sought  the  doorway,  but  the  whole  procession  fol- 
lowed, quick  march,  behind  me,  and  were  on  the  high  stairs 
as  soon  as  myself.  The  rain  poured  down  ;  the  bishop  raised 
the  infant  Jesus  in  his  arms  to  the  crowd  without !  All  fel- 


RELIGIOUS  CUSTOMS.  ,^g 

on  their  knees.  A  cry  from  the  nearest  monk  of  "  An  um 
brella  !  an  umbrella !  the  child  will  be  wet !  "  sounded  in  my 
ears. 

I  felt  as  if  I  had  left  a  profaned  temple  of  God.  "  Father 
forgive  them,  they  know  not  what  they  do,"  was  my  involun- 
tary prayer.  The  church,  Jesus,  and  the  Virgin  Mary,  were 
too  holy  in  my  breast  for  these  meretricious  ceremonies. 

I  must  speak  of  another  festival,  which,  considered  as  to  its 
intention,  is  Christianly  beautiful,  but  which,  carried  into 
effect,  is  more  comic  than  edifying.  The  design  is  this  :  that 
even  animals  should  partake  of  the  Lord's  grace  and  blessing. 

On  a  certain  day,  or  rather  in  a  stated  week,  —  for  if  one 
day  be  not  sufficient,  the  festival  is  extended  to  several  days 
in  succession,  —  the  peasant  leads  his  ass,  and  even  sometimes 
his  pig,  to  St.  Anthony's  Church,  to  be  sprinkled  with  holy 
water,  and  thereby  preserved  from  sickness  and  witchcraft. 
All  the  horses,  from  the  vetturino's  broken-down  hack  to  the 
Pope's  own  steeds,  come  to  the  church,  which  stands  open, 
and  on  all  the  altars  are  candles.  The  floor  is  strewn  with 
evergreens,  the  walls  thickly  hung  with  pictures,  painted  al 
fresco,  but  miserably  executed.  They  are  representations  of 
St.  Anthony's  temptations.  In  one  place  the  devil  comes  and 
knocks  at  his  door  ;  in  another  place  the  devil  stands  mock- 
ing at  the  glory  of  the  saints.  The  whole  space  before  the 
cloister  is  filled  with  people.  Here  are  groups  for  a  painter ! 

Side  by  side  stand  carriages  filled  with  strangers  all  stand- 
ing up  to  see  the  show  ;  horse-soldiers  keep  the  streets  clear. 
Now  comes  a  carriage  filled  with  children,  who  are  so  happy 
because  the  horses  are  about  to  be  blessed  ;  now  comes 
another  carriage  with  a  pious  old  married  couple,  who  cross 
themselves  as  they  stop  before  the  cloister  door,  where  the 
monk  stands  with  a  plasterer's  brush  in  his  hand,  and  sprin- 
kles the  horses  with  holy  water.  A  chorister  gives  a  picture 
of  St.  Anthony  to  the  coachman,  and  for  this  he  receives  one 
or  more  wax  tapers,  which  are  afterward  consecrated  in  the 
cloister,  and  sold  at  a  high  price. 

It  is  quite  picturesque  to  see  the  peasant  boys  on  the 
horses  that  are  to  be  blessed  ;  they  do  not  sit  on  the  back  of 
the  animal,  but  quite  near  the  tail.  Ribbons  of  various  colors 


TOO  A    POET'S  BAZAAR. 

flutter  from  their  pointed  hats  ;  their  jackets  and  trousers  are 
so  patched,  that  one  cannot  tell  which  was  the  original  fabric 
of  their  clothes. 

I  saw  a  little  old  woman  dragging  a  very  small  ass  along , 
it  had  silk  ribbons  around  its  tail,  and  on  each  haunch  was 
pasted  a  little  pig  made  out  of  gilt  paper !  The  old  woman 
stood  before  the  monk  with  great  devotion,  bowed  low,  and 
crossed  herself.  The  boys  pricked  the  little  ass  under  the 
tail  with  long  pins,  so  that  the  soldiers  were  obliged  to  come 
to  the  aid  of  the  poor  woman  and  her  ass. 

From  the  cloister  door  the  peasant  rides  in  full  trot  across 
the  place  to  one  of  the  open  inns,  and  enters  the  room  with 
the  animal,  sits  down  at  the  long  deal  table,  where  the  other 
peasants  are  seated  drinking,  in  order  that  he  may  become  an 
animal  himself  to-day,  and  gain  admission  to  the  blessing.1 

I  must,  in  this  place,  mention  a  festival  which,  although  it 
does  not  belong  to  those  of  the  Church,  is  yet  in  a  manner 
connected  with  them  ;  it  is  the  feast  of  languages  in  Propa- 
ganda, which  they  give,  as  it  is  called,  "  in  onore  dei  santi  re. 
magi."  We  may,  with  equal  justice,  call  Propaganda  an  uni- 
versal academy,  or  a  Noah's  ark,  just  as  we  feel  disposed. 
Young  men  from  all  parts  of  the  world  are  educated  here  for 
missionaries.  Here  are  children  from  California  to  China, 
from  Ireland  to  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope;  every  one  of  them 
repeats  a  poem  by  rote  in  his  native  tongue.  But  a  man  must 
be  a  Mezzofanti  to  profit  by  this  Babel-like  Anthology. 

1  On  the  same  day  they  lead  sheep  ornamented  with  rosettes  and  gold 
to  the  Church  of  St.  Agnes,  outside  the  walls  of  the  city,  and  there  bless 
them.  The  legend,  which  is  very  ancient,  tells  us  of  St.  Agnes,  that  she 
was  equally  beautiful  and  innocent;  and  that,  accordingly,  when  she  re- 
fused to  deny  her  Christian  faith,  she  was  led  into  a  house  dedicated  to 
vice,  where  the  soldiers  and  vagabonds  found  women  of  vicious  habits. 
Agnes  was  dragged  naked  into  a  chamber,  and  delivered  over  to  two 
rough  soldiers  :  but  at  the  same  moment,  says  the  legend,  her  fine  long 
hair  became  still  longer  and  thicker  than  before,  so  that  it  hung  like  a 
cloak  around  her  shoulders,  and  down  to  her  feet ;  and,  as  the  soldien 
were  about  to  lay  hands  on  her,  a  shining  angel  stepped  between  them 
and  her,  so  that  they  were  frightened,  and  fled.  Pure  and  undented,  she 
met  her  death  on  the  pyre.  A  church,  dedicated  to  St.  Agnes,  is  now 
erected  where  that  vile  house  stood,  and  a  chapel  in  the  cellar  is  shorn- 
as  the  chamber  in  which  she  was  protected  by  the  angel.  The  church 
stands  on  Piazza  Navona. 


RELIGIOUS  CUSTOMS.  IOI 

It  is  elevating  to  see  how  far  around  the  globe  this  blessing- 
bringing  Christian  doctrine  makes  its  way  ;  but  it  is  with  the 
auditory  in  Propaganda  as  with  the  spectators  at  the  before 
mentioned  ceremonies  ;  they  have  not  time  to  retain  what  is 
elevating  in  thought,  which  the  feast  itself  might  superinduce  ; 
they  are  made  to  laugh,  and  where  laughter  predominates 
devotion  is  gone. 

The  young  men  of  the  Propaganda  receive  the  Cardinals 
and  all  strangers  who  come  to  the  festival ;  we  are  conducted 
to  a  seat,  and  after  an  introduction,  which  is  uttered  in  Latin, 
poems  are  recited  in  forty-four  languages.  The  less  the  audi- 
ence understand  of  these  poems,  the  more  they  applaud  ;  it 
was  so  at  least  on  this  occasion,  when  I  heard  them  cheer 
loudest  an  Ethiopian  and  two  Chinese,  their  languages  sound- 
ing most  like  gibberish  and  awaking  the  loudest  laughter. 
During  the  repetition  of  a  German  poem,  I  saw  two  Italian 
monks  of  the  Capuchin  order  laugh  to  a  degree,  at  what  was 
to  them  so  curious  a  language,  that  they  were  nearly  falling 
to  the  floor. 

The  most  different  languages  and  dialects  are  to  be  heard  in 
this  place  ;  sometimes  they  also  sing  a  song  which  maybe  very 
interesting,  but  is  never  pretty.  The  impression  of  the  whole 
feast  is  that  of  a  burlesque  representation.  We  understood 
nothing,  and  laughed  at  what  sounded  meaningless  in  our  ears. 

Meanwhile,  we  read  year  after  year  in  the  German  newspa- 
pers about  the  great  effect  of  this  festival ;  but  the  effect  is 
really  only  this  —  we  laugh.1 

All  the  ceremonies  I  have  described  made  so  deep  an  im- 
pression on  me,  that  I  could  not  pass  them  over  ;  albeit  there 
is  much,  great  and  peculiar,  that  I  shall  omit  from  this  my 
collection  of  pictures  of  Rome.  These  pages,  however,  would 
press  upon  my  mind  like  a  millstone  if  I  thought  they  could 

1  The  young  ecclesiastic,  a  German,  who  showed  me  my  place  in  it,  talked 
with  great  animation  of  the  celebration,  and  repeated  several  times,  "  One 
vily  gets  such  sights  in  the  world's  city,  Rome  !  "  This  expression,  which 
has  nothing  remarkable  about  it  in  itself  considered,  I  would  not  bring  for- 
ward here,  had  not  a  correspondent  of  Allegemeine  Zeitung,  in  a  bombastic 
account  of  the  Propaganda  feast,  put  these  words  into  rcy  mouth,  to  show 
what  an  effect  this  display  had  upon  all  foreigners. 


IO2  A    POET'S  BAZAAR. 

give  offense  to  a  single  enlightened  Catholic ;  but  this  I  can 
n  t  believe.  I  have  stated  facts  ;  but  I  respect  everything 
that  is  truly  religious  in  every  creed,  and  in  every  sincere  be- 
liever. 


XII. 

THE   CASCADES  OF   TIVOL1. 

IT  was  in  the  beginning  of  February,  but  on  a  beautiful 
sunny  day :  the  almond-trees  were  in  bloom.  A  carriage, 
wherein  were  three  Danes,1  rolled  down  the  old  Via  Tibur- 
tina,  past  the  Church  of  St.  Lorenzo  ;  they  must  see  the  fall- 
ing waters  at  Tivoli  by  torch-light.  Ruins  of  monuments 
of  ancient  times,  and  shattered  towers  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
stand  conspicuous  on  the  rugged  Campagna.  Herdsmen  in 
sheep-skin  jackets,  and  with  a  picture  of  the  Madonna  on  their 
pointed,  sun-burnt  hats,  lean  against  the  dilapidated  walls 
where  a  fire  is  lighted,  and  from  whence  the  blue  gray  smoke 
rises  into  the  air. 

We  already  felt  the  poisonous  stench  from  the  little  river 
Solfatara.  It  is  but  a  rivulet,  yet  its  poisonous  vapors  have 
killed  all  the  fresh  shoots  of  grass  and  herbs  around  it ;  a 
brimstone  yellow  scum  flows  down  the  foul  water.  We  drove 
at  full  gallop,  and  were  soon  out  of  that  pestilential  district 
The  river  Anio,  with  its  fresh  stream,  rush  grown  banks,  and 
picturesque  tower  bade  us  welcome  to  the  mountain  territory. 
The  road  was  on  an  ascent,  and  always  amongst  trees ;  a 
magnificent  olive  grove  was  before  the  town.  A  strange  tone 
of  atmosphere  enveloped  the  large,  extended  Campagna.  That 
blueness,  that  violet  color  in  the  mountains  far  distant  and 
close  by  us,  and  the  dark  green  in  the  leaves  of  the  trees,  had 
an  imposing  effect.  The  sun,  as  it  went  down,  cast  a  red, 
fiery  light  on  the  trunks  of  the  trees  ;  they  appeared  to  be 
gilded  ;  the  sound  of  bagpipes  was  heard  under  the  declivity 
of  the  mountain.  The  whole  was  a  picture  of  a  fine  southenj 
evening's  delicious  tranquillity.  With  the  buoyancy  of  youth, 
we  all  three  exulted  in  this  beautiful  expanse  of  nature. 
1  Conrad  Rothe,  the  poet  H.  P.  Hoist,  and  the  author. 


THE  CASCADES  OF   TIVOLt.  103 

The  sun  went  down  at  no  great  distance  from  that  point  in 
the  horizon  where  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's  rose  enthroned, 
and  it  was  soon  dark  evening.  We  wandered  through  the 
dusky  streets  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  town  ;  to  Albergo 
del  Sibilla,  which  takes  its  name  from  the  old  Sibyl's  temple, 
that  is  built  to  the  very  edge  of  the  precipice  overhanging  the 
foaming  waters.  We  heard  from  the  road  the  wild  continuous 
thunder  of  the  large  cascades.  A  guide  lighted  his  torch  ; 
another  followed  us  with  two  large  bundles  of  hay,  which 
were  to  be  lighted  in  the  grottoes  in  front  of  the  falling  waters. 
It  was  almost  entirely  dark  in  the  little  garden  without ;  the 
flame  of  the  torch  merely  illumined  the  nearest  hedges.  The 
sky  was  covered  with  stars,  but  they  shed  no  light.  We  fol- 
lowed a  little  path  between  the  bushes,  ever  on  the  descent, 
and  were  all  the  while  deafened  by  the  roar  of  the  water-fall 
below  us.  That  we  were  only  able  to  see  the  nearest  objects 
around  the  guide,  who  bore  the  burning  torch,  and  that  all  the 
rest  lay  in  utter  darkness,  gave  a  touch  of  the  romantic  to  the 
adventure.  Not  one  of  us  knew  whether  the  abyss  in  which 
we  heard  the  water  foaming  was  behind  the  nearest  hedges,  or 
close  by  the  green  sward  on  which  we  sometimes  trod. 

The  path  soon  became  quite  narrow  ;  we  had  the  steep  rock 
to  the  right,  the  abyss  to  the  left ;  the  guide  struck  his  torch 
upon  the  ground,  so  that  it  was  almost  extinguished,  then 
swung  it  in  the  air,  and  it  again  threw  out  aflame,  whilst  the 
pitch-black  smoke  whirled  away  over  the  glittering  leaves  of 
the  trees. 

All  at  once  he  stopped,  uttered  a  wild  shout,  and  pointed 
upward  to  the  inn.  Aloft  on  the  edge  of  the  rock  and  di- 
rectly over  us  lay  the  round  Sibyl's  temple.  They  had  lighted 
a  bundle  of  hay  between  the  columns  ;  the  fire  threw  a  flam- 
ing light  on  the  pillars  and  walls,  which  looked  as  if  they  con- 
tained a  burnt-offering  ;  the  waters  still  sang  their  majestic 
hymn  with  the  same  voice  of  thunder  as  on  one  of  those 
nights  consecrated  to  the  goddesses !  For  a  second  the  whole 
temple  was  surrounded  with  rays  of  the  most  exuberant  light, 
and  then  it  was  again  night  —  dark  night. 

We  held  on  our  way  down  the  narrow  path :  incrustations 
hung  in  picturesque  diversity  over  our  heads ;  close  to  us  was 


IO4  *   POETS  BAZAAR. 

a  declivity —  how  deep  was  this?  The  light  from  the  torch 
disclosed  no  bottom :  the  waters  roared  quite  near  us.  We 
had  to  hold  on  by  the  green  hedges  that  we  might  not  fall 
into  the  deep.  The  cliffs,  like  a  natural  staircase,  soon  led  us 
into  the  Siren's  grotto.  In  order  to  understand  each  other  we 
were  obliged  to  shout  at  the  very  top  of  our  voices,  for  the 
cascades  rush  through  the  grotto  with  an  almost  deafening 
sound.  Fire  was  quickly  set  to  a  bundle  of  hay  ;  the  clear 
flame  lighted  up  the  cavern,  which  was  dripping  with  water. 

The  red  flame  of  the  fire  played  on  the  white  watery  col- 
umn, which,  with  the  lightning's  speed  dashed  from  an  im- 
mense height,  and  forced  its  way  through  an  opening  in  the 
cliff.  The  guide  threw  out  burning  hay  upon  the  foaming 
stream,  and  the  hay  burnt  as  the  water  whirled  it  along  into 
the  yawning  abyss,  and  for  a  moment  it  showed  us  the  deep 
whirlpool. 

A  few  years  ago,  a  young  Englishman  slid  from  one  of  the 
slipper}'  stones  where  a  little  cross-beam  is  now  placed,  and 
disappeared  forever.  The  now  reigning  Pope,1  Gregory 
XVI.,  to  prevent  the  town  from  falling  in  suddenly,  —  for  it 
is  undermined  by  the  many  water-falls,  —  has  made  a  new 
outlet  to  the  river  Anio,  which  outlet  forms  the  cascades,  so 
that  by  these  means  a  water-fall  has  been  produced,  which  in 
size  surpasses  all  the  others.  When  I  visited  Tivoli  in  1834, 
this  work  was  in  operation,  and  was  completed  two  years 
afterward ;  where  I  then  walked  and  plucked  flowers,  there 
now  foams,  and  perhaps  forever  will  foam,  Tivoli's  largest 
cascade.  To  this  cascade  we  now  directed  our  steps  ;  but  we 
were  first  obliged  to  ascend  the  rugged  and  slippery  steps. 
We  had  again  to  hold  fast  by  the  fresh  myrtle  branches  close 
by  the  precipice ;  and  at  this  critical  moment,  in  a  situation  of 
imminent  peril,  the  torch  went  quite  out.  The  thought  ran 
through  me  that  we  must  remain  here  for  the  night,  that  we 
must  sit  down  In  the  hedges,  and  not  move  a  foot — or  it  is 
death.  A  moment  of  dead  silence  followed  :  the  torch  flew 
whizzing  in  the  air ;  the  guide  had  thrown  it  with  all  his 
strength  against  the  rock.  The  flame  blazed  faintly  again,  and 

1  It  may  be  unnecessary  to  tell  our  readers  that,  since  Andersen  wrote 
this  work,  Pope  Gregory  XVI.  has  been  succeeded  by  Pius  IX.  —  7><i«* 


MY  BOOTS.  JO5 

soon  after  gave  a  brilliant  light.  He  now  went  brisker  forward 
up  a  broader  path,  singing  as  he  went.  By  degrees  everything 
showed  the  influence  of  art  over  nature.  Here  were  strong 
railings  and  walled  stairs,  with  a  steep  descent.  The  torch 
shone  over  the  balustrade  ;  a  cloud  of  water  broken  into  foam 
rose  up  toward  us.  The  whole  stream  fell  into  the  dark, 
giddy  deep,  looking  like  the  whitest  milk.  We  passed  through 
a  long  arch  in  which  the  river  had  its  new  bed,  and  through 
which  it  approached  the  fall  with  the  swiftness  of  an  arrow. 
Here  was  no  balustrade  ;  the  torch  lighted  up  the  stream, 
burning  hay  was  thrown  into  it,  and  it  glided  swift  as  the  flight 
of  a  bird  into  the  dizzy  pool.  I  felt  all  my  nerves  assailed  ; 
I  was  obliged  to  cling  to  the  wall,  and  fix  my  eye  for  a  time 
on  the  firm  arch  above  me.  It  was  impossible  to  understand 
one  another  here,  so  loud  was  the  roaring  of  the  powerful 
stream.  Half  an  hour  afterward  we  all  three  sat  in  a  large 
room  above  the  falls,  around  a  well  furnished  table.  We 
spoke  of  Denmark  and  of  all  our  dear  friends ;  healths  were 
drunk  to  them,  whilst  the  cascades  and  cataracts  thundered 
in  chorus. 

It  was  an  evening  full  of  poetry.  We  stood  arm  in  arm  by 
the  open  window ;  the  stars  glistened  so  brightly  that  we 
could  discern  the  foaming  masses  of  water  like  a  white  veil  in 
the  depth  below  us.  They  joined  in  with  their  loud  and  eter- 
nal song  —  a  song  such  as  no  poet  can  sing. 


XIII. 

MY  BOOTS. 
A  TRUE  STORY. 

THERE  is  a  street  in  Rome  which  is  called  Via  Purificazione, 
but  we  cannot  say  of  it  that  it  is  purified.  It  is  an  up  and 
down  sort  of  place  ;  cabbage  stalks  and  old  broken  pots  lie 
strewn  round  about ;  the  smoke  rolls  out  of  the  door  of 
the  osteria,  and  Signora  opposite  —  nay  I  cannot  help  it,  but 
it  is  true  —  Signora  opposite  shakes  her  sheets  out  of  the  win- 
dow every  morning.  In  this  street  there  are  generally  many 


IO6  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

strangers  ;  but  this  year  most  of  them  remained  at  Napies 
and  Florence,  for  fear  of  the  fever  and  pestilential  sickness 
that  was  in  Rome.  I  lived  quite  alone  in  a  large-house,  not 
even  the  host  or  hostess  slept  there  at  night. 

It  was  a  large,  cold  house,  with  a  little  wet  garden,  in  which 
there  were  only  a  row  of  pease  and  a  half-blown  gillyflower  ; 
yet  in  the  neighboring  gardens,  which  were  at  a  higher  eleva- 
tion, stood  blooming  hedge-rows  with  monthly  roses,  and  trees 
full  of  yellow  citrons.  The  latter  bore  the  continual  rain  well ; 
but  the  roses,  on  the  contrary,  appeared  as  if  they  had  lain 
for  a  week  in  the  sea. 

The  evenings  were  so  lonesome  in  the  cold,  large  rooms ; 
the  black  chimney  yawned  between  the  windows,  and  out  of 
doors  were  rain  and  drizzle.  All  the  doors  were  well  secured 
with  locks  and  iron  bars  ;  but  of  what  use  were  they  ?  The 
wind  whistled  and  screeched  through  the  crevices  in  the  doors ; 
the  few  sticks  in  the  chimney  blazed  up,  but  they  did  not  throw 
any  warmth  into  the  room  ;  the  cold  stone  floor,  the  raw  walls, 
and  the  high  ceiling,  seemed  only  to  be  adapted  for  the  sum- 
mer season. 

If  I  would  make  myself  comfortable,  I  was  obliged  to  put 
on  my  fur-lined  travelling  boots,  surtout,  cloak,  and  fur  cap ; 
yes,  then  it  was  well  enough !  It  is  true,  that  side  which  was 
turned  toward  the  fire-place  was  half  roasted :  but  in  this 
world  one  must  know  how  to  change  sides,  and  so  I  turned, 
like  a  sunflower. 

The  evenings  were  somewhat  long,  but  then  my  teeth  began 
to  give  some  nervous  concerts,  and  it  was  remarkable  how 
they  improved  in  dexterity.  A  real  Danish  toothache  is  not 
to  be  compared  to  an  Italian  one.  Pain  played  on  the  keys  of 
the  teeth,  as  if  it  were  a  Liszt  or  a  Thalberg.  Sometimes  it 
rumbled  in  the  foreground,  and  then  anon  in  the  background, 
as  when  two  martial  bands  answer  each  other,  whilst  a  large 
front  tooth  sang  the  prima  donna's  part  with  all  the  trills, 
roulades,  and  cadences  of  torture.  There  was  such  harmony 
and  power  in  the  whole,  that  I  at  last  felt  no  longer  like  a  hu- 
man being ! 

From  an  evening  it  slid  into  a  night  concert,  and  it  was  dur 
ing  such  a  one,  whilst  the  windows  shook  with  the  storm,  and 


MY  BOOTS.  1O7 

the  rain  poured  down  without,  that  I  cast  a  half  melancholy 
look  at  the  night  lamp.  My  writing  materials  stood  by  it,  and 
I  saw  quite  distinctly  that  the  pen  danced  over  the  white 
paper,  as  if  led  by  an  invisible  hand  ;  but  it  was  not  so,  it  did 
it  of  its  own  accord.  It  wrote  after  dictation  —  and  who  dic- 
tated ?  Yes,  it  sounds  strange,  but  it  is  true.  I  say  it,  and 
you  will  believe  me  —  it  was  my  boots,  my  old  Copenhagen 
boots,  which,  because  they  were  soaked  through  with  the  rain, 
had  earned  a  place  in  the  chimney  by  the  red  embers.  If  I 
suffered  from  toothache,  they  also  suffered  from  water-ache  ; 
they  dictated  their  own  biography,  and  this  I  think  will  throw 
a  light  on  the  Italian  winter  of  1840-41. 

The  Boots  said  :  — 

"  We  are  two  brothers,  right  boot  and  left  boot.  Our  first 
remembrance  is,  that  we  were  well  rubbed  in  with  wax,  and 
then  extremely  well  brushed  up  and  polished.  I  could  see 
myself  in  my  brother,  and  he  could  see  himself  in  me ;  and 
we  saw  that  we  were  one  body,  a  sort  of  Castor  and  Pollux,  a 
species  of  Siamese  twins,  whom  fate  had  determined  should 
live  and  die,  exist  and  not  exist  with  each  other.  We  were 
both  born  in  Copenhagen. 

"  The  shoemaker's  boy  carried  us  in  his  hand  forth  into  the 
world,  and  the  first  glimpse  awakened  sweet  but  false  expecta- 
tions about  our  destination.  He  to  whom  we  were  consigned 
immediately  pulled  us  by  the  ears  till  we  closed  round  his 
legs,  and  then  he  went  down  the  stairs  with  us.  We  creaked 
with  joy.  It  rained  outside,  but  we  still  creaked  ;  but  only 
the  first  day. 

"  Alas  !  how  much  wet  there  is  to  get  through  in  this  world  ! 
We  were  not  born  to  be  water-proof  boots,  and  therefore  did 
not  feel  ourselves  happy.  No  brush  gave  us  the  lustre  of  our 
youth  ;  this  lustre  we  possessed  when  the  shoemaker's  boy 
carried  us  in  his  hand  through  the  streets  ;  who  can  therefore 
depict  our  happiness  when  we  one  morning  heard  that  we 
were  to  travel  abroad  — yes,  to  Italy,  that  sunny,  warm  land, 
where  we  should  tread  on  marble  and  classic  ground,  drink 
in  the  warm  sunbeams,  and  surely  regain  our  youthful  lustre. 
We  travelled.  During  the  longest  routes  we  slept  in  the  port- 
manteau and  dreamed  of  the  warm  lands.  In  the  towns,  on 


I08  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

the  contrary,  we  looked  well  about  us,  but  it  was  wet  and  ra* 
as  in  Denmark.  Our  soles  got  a  gangrene  ;  they  were  obliged 
to  be  parted  from  the  body  in  Munich,  and  we  found  ourselves 
with  new  soles  instead :  but  they  were  made  as  well  as  if  they 
had  been  born  with  us.  'Were  we  but  over  the  Alps,'  we 
sighed  ;  'it  is  fine  and  mild  there.'  And  we  got  over  the 
Alps,  but  it  was  not  fine  and  mild  there !  —  it  rained  and  it 
blew :  and  if  we  happened  now  and  then  to  tread  on  marble, 
it  was  so  icy  cold,  that  the  marble  drew  the  cold  perspiration 
out  of  our  soles,  and  the  damp  traces  of  them  remained  where 
we  had  trodden. 

"  It  was  quite  lively  in  the  evening  when  the  waiter  num- 
bered all  the  boots  and  shoes  in  the  hotel ;  we  were  placed  in 
a  row  amongst  these  foreign  comrades,  and  heard  from  them 
about  the  places  they  came  from.  There  was  a  pair  of  beauti- 
ful red  morocco  bodies  with  black  feet  (I  think  it  was  in 
Bologna),  and  they  told  us  about  the  warm  summer  in  Rome 
and  Naples  ;  they  told  us  about  their  climbing  up  Vesuvius, 
where  the  feet  were  burnt  off  them  by  the  subterranean  heat ; 
alas  !  we  almost  desired  to  die  in  such  a  manner.  '  Were  we 
but  over  the  Apennines  !  were  we  but  in  Rome  1 '  —  and  we 
went  there !  But  now  we  have  groveled  in  rain  and  sludge 
week  after  week !  But  one  must  see  all  things,  we  suppose, 
and  there  will  never  be  an  end,  either  of  curiosities  or  pouring 
rain  !  Not  a  warm  ray  has  refreshed  us  ;  the  cold  wind  has 
gamboled  around  us !  O  Rome !  Rome  !  to-night,  for  the 
first  time,  we  will  drink  warmth  from  the  blessed  chimney, 
and  we  will  drink  till  we  burst !  The  upper  leathers  are  all 
gone,  and  our  bodies  are  giving  way :  they  will  burst  too ! 
But  before  we  die  this  happy  death,  we  wish  this  our  history 
to  be  noted  down,  and  our  dead  bodies  brought  to  Berlin  to 
rest  with  him  who  has  had  courage  and  manliness  enough  to 
depict  '  Italien  wie  es  ist  /'  to  the  truth-loving  Nicolai  " —  and 
having  said  thus  much,  the  boots  fell  together. 

It  was  quite  still ;  my  night  lamp  went  out ;  I  dozed  a  little, 
and  when  I  awoke  in  the  morning,  I  thought  it  was  a  dream  ; 
but  I  looked  into  the  chimney  ;  the  boots  were  quite  shrunk 
up  ;  they  stood  like  mummies  standing  amid  the  cold  ashes. 
I  looked  at  the  paper  as  it  lay  by  my  lamp  ;  it  was  a  gray 


THE  EMPEROR'S  CASTLE. 


109 


paper  full  of  ink  spots  ;  the  pen  had  really  passed  over  it,  but 
the  words  had  all  run  into  each  other,  for  the  pen  had  written 
the  boots'  memoirs  on  gray  paper.  I  noted  down  what  I  still 
remembered  ;  and  the  reader  will  recollect  that  it  is  not  I,  but 
my  boots,  who  cry  "  Woe !  "  to  —  la  bella  Italia  I 


XIV. 

THE  EMPEROR'S  CASTLE. 

HOWEVER  bad  the  winter  may  be  in  Rome,  it  yet  has  days 
beautiful  as  the  finest  spring  days  in  the  North.  We  feel  a 
desire  to  go  forth  into  the  green  fields  and  gardens  :  and  both 
are  to  be  found  there.  The  roses  stand  in  flower  ;  the  laurel 
hedges  shed  their  perfume  ;  we  have  many  places  to  choose 
from  for  our  promenade.  We  will  now  visit  the  ruins  of  the 
Emperor's  Castle.  They  lie  on  a  whole  mountain  plain  or 
table-land  in  the  middle  of  the  city.  Here  are  vineyards,  gar- 
dens, ruins,  and  miserable  houses  ;  here  are  fruitful,  arable 
land,  and  barren  spots  where  the  ass  munches  its  thistle,  and 
the  goats  seek  the  mossy  grass. 

Out  toward  the  Forum  there  still  stands  a  row  of  firm 
walls.  Large  hedges  and  hanging  plants  spring  over  the 
slope  like  the  waters  of  a  cascade ;  tall  cypresses  carry  their 
heads  aloft,  towering  above  the  rest ;  we  saunter  down  the 
broad  carriage  road,  and  stand  before  a  villa  in  the  midst  of  a 
garden  so  green  and  fragrant  that  we  cannot  believe  it  to  be 
winter,  and  we  are  in  the  month  of  January.  Mignonnette, 
gillyflowers,  and  roses  spread  their  perfumes  around  ;  citrons 
and  oranges  shine  on  the  trees  through  the  dark  leaves.  We 
stroll  through  an  avenue  of  laurel-trees  toward  a  natural  bal- 
cony which  the  wall  presents  toward  the  Campagna ;  we  see 
below  us  the  solitary  tombs  of  the  dead,  the  yellow  winding 
Tiber,  and  far  in  the  distant  horizon  a  crystal  stripe :  that  is 
the  Mediterranean. 

In  the  midst  of  the  garden  which  we  enter  are  two  consid- 
erable openings  in  the  earth  ;  they  are  quite  round,  and  from 
the  topmost  edge  to  the  bottom,  as  far  down  as  one  can  see, 


IIO  A  POETS  BAZAAR. 

they  are  covered  with  luxuriant  evergreens.  One  might  sup- 
pose that  each  of  them  was  a  crater,  which,  instead  of  lava  and 
ashes,  threw  up  flowers  and  shrubs,  with  which  the  whole  ex- 
tensive ruin  would  in  time  be  covered.  Under  these  open- 
ings are  large  vaults,  so  deep  that  the  daylight  cannot  reach 
the  bottom.  Here,  where  perhaps  the  marble  basin  once 
stood,  and  beautiful  women  bathed  their  graceful  limbs,  sur- 
rounded by  the  rays  of  a  thousand  lamps  ;  where  the  incense 
shed  its  perfume,  and  where  song  and  stringed  instruments 
resounded,  there  now  hops  a  clammy  frog.  Perhaps  it  is  one 
of  those  mighty  empresses,  herself  doomed  to  drag  her  wet, 
heavy  limbs  along  in  the  dark  below,  where  she,  in  by-gone 
days,  hatched  wicked,  murderous  thoughts ! 

Stay  there  below  in  the  darkness  of  night,  thou  unhappy 
one  !  Here  above  the  roses  bloom  ;  the  warm  sunbeams  kiss 
the  laurel-tree's  green  leaves,  and  the  stranger  drinks  in  a 
beautiful  draught  of  the  South  that  will  never  be  obliterated 
from  his  mind. 

We  wander  away  from  these  luxuriant  green  gulfs,  and  fol- 
low the  path  that  winds  between  flowering  shrubs  over  steep 
declivities,  and  a  wooden  staircase  leads  us,  down  into  another 
part  of  the  castle,  to  a  cabbage-garden.  The  mosaic  floor  has 
disappeared,  the  rain-worm  crawls  forth  from  the  wet  earth, 
where  in  former  times  Rome's  emperor  with  his  court  sat 
round  the  groaning  board.  Here  the  precious  dishes  sent 
forth  their  savory  odors:  here  were  flamingo  tongues,  and 
peacocks'  hearts  ;  here,  during  the  meal,  those  great  ones  of 
the  earth  changed  their  rich  apparel ;  here  they  displayed 
themselves  in  their  false  locks,  painted  skin  and  eyebrows, 
gold  dust  in  the  hair,  and  with  shoes  whose  soles  were  per- 
fumed with  salve.  The  poor  gold-laced  slave  stood  as  immov- 
able as  the  cabbage  stalk  now ;  if  he  coughed  or  sneezed  he 
was  cast  into  the  fish-pond  to  feed  the  fishes  that  were  to  grace 
the  emperor's  table. 

How  many  reminiscences  are  connected  with  this  place, 
where  Caligula,  Commodus,  and  Tiberius  reigned.  The  poet 
casts  these  mad  emperors'  names  with  disdain  into  the  world, 
where  curses  will  be  heaped  upon  them  till  the  day  of  judg- 
ment !  Even  the  school-boy  in  the  smallest  town  in  the  fai 


ST.    CANUTE.  I  I  I 

North  shakes  his  little  fist,  and  cannot  pray  to  God  for  these 
wicked  men. 

These  corrupt  spirits  hover  above  the  ruins  of  the  Emperor's 
Castle  ;  they  fly  with  the  rapidity  of  thought  around  the  world, 
and  only  rest  where  a  curse  is  pronounced  over  their  lives  and 
actions  !  Fly  over  sea  and  land  !  No  relationship,  no  polit- 
ical connection,  nothing  screens  you  now  —  you  stand  alone ! 
Man  judges  !  God  forgives  ! 

Where  extravagance  and  luxury  poured  out  its  cornucopia 
there  now  grows  the  frugal  cabbage ;  the  walls  which  in- 
closed those  sensual  vices  now  bear  the  fig-tree's  broad  leaf 
of  modesty,  and  the  peaceful  olive  grows  where  blood  once 
flowed.  We  will  remember  Titus,  remember  the  noble-minded, 
whose  life  casts  a  lustre  on  remembrance  ;  we  will  look  at  the 
beautiful  scented  roses,  and  forget  that  fallen  greatness  in  the 
charms  of  eternal  nature  ! 


XV. 

» 

ST.    CANUTE. 

DENMARK  is  certainly  a  Protestant  land ;  but  the  names  of 
many  of  its  saints  live  in  Rome  in  the  mouths  of  the  people, 
or  are  connected  with  one  or  other  place. 

In  many  a  Danish  village  church  is  still  to  be  seen  the 
image  of  Madonna,  either  painted  high  up  on  the  walls 
under  the  lofty  ceiling  where  it  is  not  whitened  over,  or  even 
on  the  altar-piece.  The  church-bells  in  the  Danish  villages 
ring  at  sunset,  as  they  did  in  the  time  of  Catholicism,  the  Are 
Maria. 

St.  Canute  was  the  first  saint  I  heard  named  when  a 
child,  though  my  Lutheran  Catechism  did  not  mention  a  word 
about  saints.  A  fine  old  church,  in  my  native  town,  bears  the 
name  of  this  saint,  whose  bones  rest  behind  its  altar. 

St.  Canute  was  once  a  greater  saint  than  king  in  Den- 
mark ;  a  thousand  lights  burned  at  his  altar,  and  the  guild 
statutes  boasted  his  name.  When  a  child,  I  heard  the  history 
of  this  Danish  king,  who,  because  he  laid  a  tax  on  the  Jut- 


112  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

landers  was  pursued  by  them  to  Funen.  He  rested  on  the 
way  thither,  and  the  stone  on  which  he  sat  was  much  softer 
than  the  hearts  of  his  enemies :  we  yet  see  the  traces  on  the 
stone  upon  which  he  sat.  I  saw  it  when  a  child,  and  I  be- 
lieved the  legend.  The  King  sought  refuge  in  the  Church  of 
St.  Alban,  in  Odense  j  his  enemies  flocked  thither,  and 
his  own  servant,  Blake,  was  the  betrayer  of  his  master.1  A 
stone  was  thrown  through  the  church  window  ;  it  struck  the 
King  on  the  head,  and  he  sank  in  his  own  blood  before  the 
high  altar,  where  he  prayed.  His  relics  were  revered  and  he 
was  made  a  saint ;  even  in  Rome  an  altar  was  raised  to  his 
memory. 

When  a  child  I  never  passed  St.  Canute's  Church  in  the 
evening  without  shutting  my  eyes  ;  and  then  I  always  saw 
most  distinctly  the  pale,  dead  King,  with  the  gold  crown  on 
his  bleeding  head,  and  clad  in  his  mantle  of  velvet  and 
ermine,  gliding  beneath  the  lofty  arch  from  the  font  up  to  the 
altar. 

On  the  right  hand  side  of  the  street,  leading  from  the 
Castle  of  St.  Angelo  toward  Piazza  di  San  Pietro  in  Rome, 
there  is  a  monk's  clofster  with  a  church,  —  I  believe  it  is  called 
Transmontane,  —  and  amongst  the  many  altars  within  it  is 
one  consecrated  to  the  Danish  King  Canute.  He  stands  in 
the  altar-piece  with  his  gold  crown  on,  and  in  a  mantle  of 
velvet  and  ermine,  just  as  when  a  child  I  imagined  him  to  be, 
wandering  in  the  church  which  contains  his  bones. 

The  nineteenth  of  January,  according  to  the  "  Diario  Ro- 
mano," is  the  feast  of  St.  Canute.  The  rain  poured  down, 
and  it  was  miserable  weather  ;  but  as  a  Dane  I  could  not  do 
otherwise  than  go  to  see  the  Danish  saint's  feast  celebrated. 

I  entered  the  church  :  there  was  not  a  being  there ;  two 
small  tallow  candles  burned  so  dimly  and  looked  so  sordid, 
and  these  stood  on  the  altar  of  St.  Canute. 

I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  it ;  I  must  at  least  know 
why  a  little  more  was  not  done  for  him.  I  rang  the  bell  to 
the  cloister,  and  an  old  monk  came  out.  I  asked  him  why 
St.  Canute  had  no  more  than  two  candles,  and  why  there 
was  no  music  or  other  festival  ceremony. 

1  From  this  comes  the  Danish  saying,  "  false  Blake." 


THE   COLISEUM.  \  \  $ 

"  Alas,  sir !  "  said  the  monk,  "  our  cloister  is  one  of  the 
poorest  in  all  Rome  !  We  can  only  afford  to  celebrate  one 
great  festival  in  the  year;"  and  he  mentioned  the  saint's 
name.  "  Then  there  is  music,  and  the  church  is  radiant  with 
light ;  but  we  are  only  able  to  do  such  things  once  a  year ! 
St.  Canute  is  from  the  North,  and  therefore  our  cloister 
never  receives  anything  !  St.  Canute  is  poor !  " 

I  felt  that  the  man  was  right. 

I  stood  alone  before  the  altar  of  my  childhood's  saint,  in 
whose  church  I  had  wept  over  my  father's  coffin,  in  whose 
church  1  was  confirmed  ;  the  saint  whose  church  once  served 
me,  in  its  vastness,  for  a  measure  of  all  mountain  heights  ; 
yes,  even  of  the  distance  between  the  earth  and  stars.  St. 
Canute,  all  the  honors  of  the  universe  are  perishable !  No 
candle  burns  by  thy  tomb  in  thine  earthly  kingdom  ;  and  even 
in  the  city  of  the  Pope  thou  hast,  on  thy  festival,  but  two 
poor  tallow  candles !  The  greatest  festival  thou  hast  is,  that 
thy  countryman  stands  by  thy  tomb  and  sketches  this  sorrow- 
ful picture  in  remembrance  of  thee,  St.  Canute. 


XVI. 

THE   COLISEUM. 

I  HAVE  heard  several  interesting  lectures  concerning  the 
gigantic  forms  in  the  antediluvian  world,  but  I  never  under- 
stood them  better  than  when  I  once  saw  the  skeleton  of  a 
mammoth.  It  filled  a  considerable  space  in  the  large  yard 
where  it  was  laid ;  long  grass  grew  out  of  the  spinal  bones  ami 
round  about  the  side  bones  ;  one  might  have  thought  it  was 
the  hull  of  a  vessel,  and  not  the  carcass  of  an  animal  that  had 
once  lived. 

The  Coliseum  is  a  mammoth's  carcass  of  another  species  ; 
it  is  a  stone  skeleton  that  proclaims  the  departed  greatness  of 
Rome  better  than  books  can  do ;  it  is  a  ruin,  an  incredibly  de- 
vastated ruin.  Whole  palaces  in  Rome  are  erected  from  its 
torn-down  walls,  and  yet  there  is,  in  what  we  still  see,  a  magni- 
tude like  that  which  is  found  in  the  Pyramids  and  rock  temples 
8 


114  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

of  India.1  Every  colonnade  forms  large  streets ;  the  broken- 
down  staircase,  from  the  floor  to  the  uppermost  cornice,  is  a 
whole  range  of  rocks  covered  with  grass  and  underwood  ;  it 
is  a  declivity  that  might  hold  a  small  city.  Here  and  there,  in 
the  topmost  parts  of  the  ruin,  is  a  house  plastered  up,  with 
little  crooked  windows,  and  in  them  are  persons  living. 

The  whole  ruin  forms  an  open  church  with  many  altars  • 
the  cross  stands  in  the  midst  under  the  open  sky ;  the  Capu- 
chin monks  come  here  every  Friday  in  procession,  and  one  of 
the  brethren  preaches  a  sermon  where,  in  past  times,  the  wild 
animals  roared  and  howled,  while  the  gladiator  wrestled,  and 
breathed  out  his  life  without  uttering  a  cry  of  pain.  Yonder 
on  that  sunlit  declivity,  where  the  particolored  lizard  sits  un- 
disturbed and  hatches  its  young,  sat  Rome's  emperor,  with 
his  purple  clad  courtiers  ;  and  here,  where  now  the  ragged 
beggar  takes  his  place,  waved  the  white  veil  of  the  vestal 
maiden. 

One  ought  to  enter  this  place  for  the  first  time  by  the  full 
light  of  the  moon ;  a  tragedy  composed  of  stone  is  what  we 
then  see  and  read.  One  ought  to  wander  through  these  im- 
mense arches  by  torch-light,  and  ascend  to  the  very  top,  where 
the  walls  are  not  of  stone,  but — masses  of  rock.  What  a 
dead  silence !  what  immensity  !  The  torch-light  falls  on  the 
cobwebs  in  the  corners,  where  the  fly  sprawls  and  struggles  ; 
but  we  think  not  of  it ;  we  think  not  of  the  woes  of  every-day 
life  :  the  stones  around  us  have  voices,  the  stars  above  stand 
in  alliance  with  them  ;  the  soul  feels  itself  expand  in  the  midst 
of  greatness.  The  Coliseum  preaches  to  us  about  the  system 
of  the  world,  about  the  greatness  and  the  impotence  of  the 
human  race,  so  that  the  mind  becomes  at  once  elevated  and 
humbled. 

1  The  Amphitheatre  in  Verona  is  still  so  well  preserved  that  the  dead 
of  former  ages,  if  they  could  arise,  would  think  that  it  was  but  a  few  weeks 
since  they  sat  in  that  place  ;  but  the  whole  theatre  is  dwarfish  in  compar- 
ison with  the  Coliseum.  The  same  may  be  said  of  the  Amphitheatre  near 
Capua ;  it  certainly  affords  the  best  idea  of  the  machinery  of  that  time , 
but  in  magnitude  it  quite  disappears  before  the  Coliseum. 


THE  CARNIVAL. 

XVII. 

THE   CARNIVAL. 

WHAT  makes  the  Roman  Carnival  so  lively,  so  peculiarly 
splendid,  and  so  far  surpassing  the  same  kind  of  festivity  in 
every  other  place,  arises  from  this  cause,  that  the  feast  of  the 
Carnival  in  the  streets  of  Rome  is  confined  to  six  days,  and 
on  each  of  these  days  to  three  hours.  II  Corso  and  the  near- 
est side-streets  alone  contain  the  scene  of  this  popular  amuse- 
ment. Both  time  and  place  are  concentrated.  Mirth  here  is 
like  effervescing  champagne :  the  goblet  foams  and  sparkles ; 
it  is  emptied  directly,  and  —  then  follows  the  fast. 

The  Roman  Carnival  which,  with  insignificant  variations  is 
from  year  to  year  the  same,  has  been  so  vividly  depicted  by 
Goethe  that  no  one  can  do  it  better ;  therefore,  every  new  de- 
scription is  superfluous.  I  would  rather  not  give  any  ;  only  to 
make  my  picture  of  Rome  a  little  more  complete,  I  must  draw 
a  slight  sketch  of  it  in  this  book :  the  details  belong  solely  to 
the  Carnival  of  1841. 

The  Senator  sits  in  the  Capitol  clad  in  purple  and  gold, 
surrounded  by  his  pages  in  their  many  colored  dresses  :  a  de- 
putation of  Jews  enter,  and  beg  permission  to  dwell  for  an- 
other year  in  that  quarter  of  the  city  allotted  to  them,  namely, 
Ghetto.  They  obtain  this  permission ;  the  Senator  gets  into 
a  glass  coach,  the  old  bells  of  the  Capitol  ring,  and  this  is  the 
signal  for  the  Carnival  to  commence. 

The  coach  drives  on  at  a  foot-pace  toward  Piazza  del  Pop- 
olo,  and  behind  it  swarms  a  crowd  of  persons  from  palaces, 
houses,  and  pot-houses.  But  the  greatest  order  prevails  every- 
where. Any  lady  may  freely  venture  out  in  man's  clothing  ; 
it  would  never  enter  any  one's  head  to  insult  her,  or  make  the 
least  sign  that  could  alarm  her  modesty. 

It  is  amusing  to  see  how  the  poorer  classes  contrive  .  j  pro- 
cure a  carnival  dress :  they  sew  salad  leaves  all  over  their 
clothes  j  they  have  them  on  their  shoes,  and  even  on  their 
head  by  way  of  peruke ;  husband  and  wife,  and  sometimes 
their  children  too,  are  quite  clothed  in  salad.  Orange  peel  is 
cut  out,  and  worn  as  spectacles ;  this  is  the  whole  of  their  dec- 


Il6  -f    POET'S  BAZAAK. 

orations,  and  thus  the  poor  couple  wander  through  the  streets 
with  the  greatest  gravity  and  the  most  majestic  bearing. 

From  Piazza  del  Popolo,  the  Senator  proceeds  with  his  suite 
up  II  Corso.  All  the  windows  and  balconies  are  hung  with 
red,  blue,  and  yellow  silk  drapery;  places  everywhere  are 
filled  with  persons  of  both  sexes,  and  a  great  part  are  in  cos- 
tume, with  and  without  masks.  Small  rush  chairs  or  benches 
are  placed  close  to  the  houses  on  the  whole  line  ;  they  are  let 
out,  and  the  more  quietly  disposed  take  their  "places  there. 
The  one  row  of  carriages  drives  down  the  line,  the  other  up, 
and  both  carriages  and  horses  are  mostly  decorated  with  ever- 
greens and  fluttering  ribbons.  We  often  see  coachmen,  old 
fellows  with  genuine  Italian  physiognomies,  dressed  out  like 
ladies,  whilst  a  pug-dog  sits  by  their  side  dressed  like  an  in- 
fant in  long  clothes,  or  as  a  young  miss.  Other  carriages  are 
decked  out  like  steam-vessels,  and  have  a  crew  of  sailors 
clothed  alike,  or  with  girls  in  military  costume.  When  two 
such  vessels  meet,  a  violent  combat  takes  place,  in  which  con- 
fetti1 pour  down  on  each  other,  not  thrown  with  the  hand, 
but  often  out  of  large  goblets.  The  great  mass  of  humanity 
moves  along  on  the  footpath,  and  even  between  the  carriages. 
If  two  Punches  or  Harlequins  meet,  they  take  each  other  by 
the  arm  and  push  their  way  on  hooting  and  screaming ;  masks 
of  the  same  kind  join  each  other,  and  they  soon  become  a 
whole  flock.  Shouting,  they  force  their  way  between  the  car- 
riages and  passengers  on  foot ;  it  is  just  as  if  a  foaming  water- 
spout darted  over  a  gently  undulating  sea.  At  sunset,  the 
sound  of  cannon  is  heard  ;  the  carriages  draw  off  into  the  side- 
streets,  and  the  soldiers,  who  have  been  posted  at  some  dis- 
tance from  each  other,  now  collect  together  and  march  through 
the  streets  ;  the  cavalry  ride  slowly  after  ;  the  second  time 
they  ride  quicker,  and  the  third  time  at  full  speed.  This  is 
the  signal  that  the  horse-races  are  about  to  begin. 

High  tribunes  are  erected  in  Piazza  del  Popolo  ;  a  rope  is 
fixed  across  the  street,  and  behind  this  ace  six  or  seven  half- 
wild  horses  hung,  round  with  iron  plates,  the  barbs  on  them 
being  turned  inward,  and  on  their  backs  are  fastened  pieces 
of  burning  sponge. 

1  Confetti  are  red  and  white  balls  as  large  as  pease,  and  made  of  gypsum 


THE   CARNIVAL. 


117 


The  rope  falls  —  the  horses  dart  away  —  silk  ribbons  and 
tinsel  gold  flutter  and  rattle  on  their  manes  and  sides.  "  Ca- 
valli !  cavalli  /"  shout  the  innumerable  crowds,  as  they  make 
way  for  the  flying  horses,  which  become  still  more  wild  from 
the  screaming  of  the  people ;  they  rush  past,  and  the  street 
behind  them  is  closed  again  by  the  enormous  swarm. 

Before  the  horses  have  reached  the  goal,  they  are  for  the 
most  part  so  exhausted  that  they  come  up  to  an  easy  trot ; 
meanwhile,  the  uppermost  part  of  the  street  is  inclosed  with 
large  carpets  suspended  from  house  to  house  at  certain  dis- 
tances. If  the  horses  were  still  in  their  wildest  flight  they 
would,  nevertheless,  be  stopped  here,  entangled,  as  they  must 
be,  in  these  draperies. 

It  has  a  very  comical  appearance  when  by  chance  a  dog 
gets  into  a  part  of  the  street  that  is  cleared.  The  persons 
nearest  the  poor  brute  at  once  proceed  to  chase  it ;  the  whole 
row  follows  the  example,  and  the  unhappy  dog  must  take  his 
way  through  the  whole  street.  Screaming  and  clapping  of 
hands  from  both  sides  keep  it  in  the  middle  of  the  street. 
There  is  such  exultation !  the  poor  dog  is  obliged  to  run  a 
race,  and  if  it  happens  to  be  a  heavy  dog,  it  appears  just  as 
miserable  as  comical ;  it  can  scarcely  lift  its  legs,  and  yet  it 
must  gallop,  gallop  ! 

It  is  a  lively  scene  in  the  evenings  of  the  Carnival  time,  if 
we  enter  an  osteria  or  wine-house,  where  we  often  find  a  whole 
company  of  merry  maskers,  drinking  their  Foglietta,  improvis- 
ing a  song,  or  dancing  Saltarello.  Whole  crowds  go  through 
the  streets  with  song  and  tambourine,  preceded  by  a  burning 
torch.  They  go  to  the  theatres,  particularly  to  the  smaller 
ones,  in  their  masquerade  dresses,  and  the  audience  play 
there  as  much  as  the  actors.  I  followed  such  a  crowd  to 
Teatro  Alibert ;  about  a  third  part  of  the  public  there  was  in 
costume  :  knights  in  armor,  flower-girls,  harlequins,  and  Gre- 
cian gods  sat  amongst  us  in  our  every-day  dress.  One  of 
the  largest  boxes  in  the  first  tier  was  quite  filled  with  pretty 
Roman  girls,  all  dressed  like  Pantaloon,  but  without  masks  or 
rouge.  They  were  so  joyous  and  so  beautiful  that  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  look  at  them  ;  but  they  certainly  drew  the  whole 
attention  from  the  stage.  A  very  favorite  tragedy  was  per- 


Il8  A   POET'S  BAZAAR, 

formed,  called,  "  Byron  in  Venice ;  or,  England  and  Misso- 
longhi !  "  It  was  very  affecting,  but  the  public  were  merry. 
Up  in  the  gallery  there  was  a  common-looking  fellow  with  a 
thick,  black  beard,  but  dressed  as  a  peasant  girl ;  he  seemed 
to  be  much  affected  by  the  piece.  He  formed  a  curtain  over 
the  box  underneath  with  his  apron,  and  then  with  the  skirt  of 
his  gown  wiped  his  eyes  and  applauded.  The  eyes  of  the 
audience  were  drawn  more  to  him,  than  to  Byron  and  Misso- 
longhi. 

The  last  day  of  the  Carnival  is  always  the  liveliest ;  it  con- 
cludes with  the  bouquet  of  the  whole  festival,  the  brilliant, 
magnificent  Moccolo.  It  was  particularly  lively  this  year 
(1841),  as  the  last  day  of  the  Carnival  was  on  the  2  5th  of 
February.  There  came  a  dressed  out  married  couple  on  high 
stilts ;  they  moved  adventurously  through  the  crowd  of  pas- 
sengers and  carriages.  Here  growled  another  couple  dressed 
like  bears,  the  one  white  and  the  other  jet  black,  both  chained 
to  each  other;  behind  them  followed  a  miller  linked  to  a 
chimney  sweep,  and  then  came  a  man  hopping  about  with 
lottery  tickets  ;  to  the  end  of  his  hat  was  fastened  a  bladder. 
There  came  another  with  an  organ  on  a  hand-cart ;  out  of 
each  pipe  stuck  the  head  of  a  live  cat,  which  screamed  piti- 
fully, for  the  man  had  a  cord  fastened  to  the  tail  of  each,  and 
in  this  manner  he  played.  One  carriage  was  decorated  so  as 
to  form  a  throne  of  flowers,  and  thereon  sat  a  minstrel.  The 
harp  was  made  fast,  but  above  it  was  a  wheel  of  fortune  with 
many  flags,  and  it  turned  with  the  wind.  Another  carriage 
represented  a  gigantic  violoncello  ;  on  each  string  rode  a  fig- 
ure ;  the  treble  string  bore  a  fine  little  lady,  and  all  the  four 
strings  sang  in  a  loud  key,  just  as  the  fiddler  who  stood  by 
the  side  of  the  violoncello,  stroked  the  person's  back  with  his 
bow. 

Throughout  that  long  street  confetti  and  flowers  poured 
iown,  yet  mostly  flowers,  for  this  year's  February  was  abun- 
dant in  violets  and  anemones.  I  saw  Don  Miguel,  not  a 
mask,  but  the  real  Don  Miguel  dressed  as  a  civilian,  wan 
dering  amongst  the  crowd ;  he  had  a  handful  of  confetti. 
Queen  Christina  of  Spain  had  a  place  in  a  balcony  ;  confetti 
and  flowers  were  the  weapons  she  was  armed  with.  Now 


PEGASUS  AND  THE  VETTURINO  HORSES.   119 

sounded  the  signal  for  the  horse-race.  One  of  the  spectators 
was  killed  that  day  by  the  frightened  horses:  such  things 
occur  every  year  ;  the  corpse  was  carried  away,  and  the  mirth 
continued.  "  Moccoli  I  moccoli  !  "  resounded  on  all  sides,  and 
in  a  moment  there  appeared  from  all  the  windows  and  bal- 
conies, nay,  even  from  the  roof  itself,  long  rods,  sticks,  and 
reeds  covered  with  burning  wax-lights.  The  carriages  which, 
during  the  horse-race,  had  drawn  off  into  the  side-streets,  now 
filled  II  Corso  again  ;  but  the  horses,  the  coachman's  hat,  his 
whip,  everything,  were  covered  with  burning  wax-lights ;  every 
lady  in  the  carriages  held  her  candle,  and  endeavored  to 
screen  it  from  the  opposite  party  who  tried  to  extinguish  it. 
Sticks  with  handkerchiefs  fluttered  in  the  air.  A  screaming 
and  shouting,  of  which  no  one  that  has  not  heard  it  can  form 
any  idea,  deafened  all  ears  :  "  Senza  moccolo  !  senza  moccolo  !  " 
Small  paper  balloons  with  candles  in  them  hovered  over  the 
crowd  and  fell  down  amongst  them  ;  it  was  in  this  immense 
street  as  if  all  the  stars  in  the  firmament,  not  forgetting  the 
milky  way.  had  made  a  tour  through  II  Corso.  The  air  was 
as  if  heated  by  the  candles,  and  the  ear  was  deafened  by  the 
shouts.  Everything  was  like  the  wildest  bacchanalian  feast  — 
and  then,  almost  at  once,  light  by  light  was  put  out ;  we  saw 
the  last  extinguished,  and  it  was  dark  and  still.  The  church- 
bells  rang,  and  the  long  fast  began. 

Next  morning  one  well  packed  carriage  after  the  other 
drove  away  with  the  strangers  —  away  from  that  death-like 
Rome,  where  all  the  galleries  were  closed,  all  the  paintings  — 
even  the  altars  covered  with  black  curtains. 

They  went  to  Naples. 


XVIII. 

PEGASUS   AND   THE   VETTURINO   HORSES. 
A  DIALOGUE. 

WE  have  had  descriptions  of  travels  in  many  forms  ;  but  as 
yet,  I  think,  we  have  had  none  in  dialogue.  Early  in  the 
morning  of  the  z6th  of  February,  1841,  a  well-packed  travel- 


I  2O  A   POSTS  BAZAAR. 

ling  carriage,  drawn  by  two  common  hacks,  and  a  leader  so 
fine,  so  lively,  and  so  fiery,  drove  out  of  Rome  through  Porta 
Santa  Giovanni.  This  leader  was  Pegasus  himself,  and  it  is 
quite  probable  that  he  had  allowed  himself  to  be  harnessed  to 
the  carriage  ;  for  within  it  sat  two  poets,  besides  a  church- 
singer,  so  animated,  so  full  of  youth's  gladness,  for  he  had 
just  escaped  out  of  the  cloister  to  study  thorough-bass  in 
Naples.  In  Albano,  already  he  threw  off  the  monk's  cowl 
and  put  on  the  gentleman's  black  coat ;  he  might  almost  have 
passed  for  a  poet ;  and  then  there  was  a  Signora  who  was  an 
admirer  of  poetry  and  poets,  but  she  could  not  bear  to  ride 
backward.  It  was,  as  we  hear,  a  very  respectable  company, 
even  for  Pegasus  to  draw.  They  took  the  way  to  Naples,  and 
now  we  shall  hear  the  dialogue. 

THE   FIRST   DAY'S  JOURNEY. 
PEGASUS. 

The  way  to  Albano  is  over  antique  roads,  past  aqueducts 
of  several  miles  in  length,  standing  proudly  like  the  columns 
in  palace-halls,  and  past  bush-grown  walled  tombs.  A  Capu- 
chin monk  with  his  beggar's  wallet  on  his  shoulders  is  the 
only  person  we  meet  We  approach  the  tomb  of  the  Ascanii ; 
it  lifts  its  head  like  a  mighty  stone  Colossus  by  the  way-side, 
bearing  its  crown  of  grass  and  bushes.  Sing  of  it,  ye  poets 
there  in  the  carriage,  sing  of  Rome's  Campagna  ! 

THE  VETTURINO  HORSES. 

Look  to  it  that  you  draw  too !  What  is  the  meaning  of  all 
those  jolts  and  jumps  ?  We  shall  bait  in  Albano  for  two 
whole  hours ;  the  oats  there  are  good,  and  the  stable  large. 
O  dear !  we  have  a  long  way  to  go  before  we  shall  get  to 
rest  this  evening. 

PEGASUS. 

We  are  in  Albano !  here,  in  this  street,  is  a  house  ;  we  go 
close  past  it ;  it  is  quite  a  small  one  of  only  two  stories.  The 
door  opens,  a  sportsman  steps  out ;  he  has  pale  cheeks,  and 
jet  black  eyes.  It  is  Don  Miguel,  ex-King  of  Portugal.  A 
poem  might  be  written  about  him  !  Hear  it,  ye  poets  within 


PEGASUS  AND    THE    VETTURINO  HORSES.        121 

the  carriage !  No,  they  do  not  hear  it ;  the  one  is  playing 
the  agreeable  to  Signora,  the  other  sits  with  his  thoughts  on 
a  tragedy. 

THE  VETTURINO  HORSES. 

Now  we  have  baited,  let  us  prepare  to  be  off  again.  The 
way  is  a  long  up  and  down  one.  Don't  look  at  the  pile  of 
stones ;  that  is  the  grave  of  the  Horatii ;  it  is  an  old  history. 
Now  go  on. 

PEGASUS. 

What  magnificent  trees  !  What  rows  of  evergreens  !  The 
road  runs  between  high  rocks,  the  fountains  ripple,  and  aloft 
on  the  mountain,  between  the  tops  of  the  trees,  rises  the 
church  cupola  of  Aricia.  The  bells  ring.  By  the  road  stands 
a  cross ;  beautiful  girls  pass  it ;  they  bend  their  knee  before 
the  cross  and  count  their  beads.  We  approach  Genzano  ; 
the  poets  descend  from  the  carriage  ;  they  will  see  Nemi 
Lake,  where  there  was  once  a  crater.  But  that  is  an  older 
story  than  that  of  the  Horatii !  Let  us  away  while  the  poets 
are  admiring  it ;  they  can  reach  us  at  Velletri.  Let  us  be  off! 

THE  VETTURINO   HORSES. 

That  first  horse  is  just  as  if  he  were  mad  !  He  can't  stand, 
he  can't  go !  yet  he  seems  as  if  he  were  old  enough  to  have 
learned  to  do  both. 

PEGASUS. 

Far  beneath  us  lie  the  green  grass-grown  swamps,  and 
Circe's  rocky  island  by  the  sea.  We  are  in  Cisterna,  the 
little  town  where  the  Apostle  Paul  was  received  by  his  friends 
from  Rome,  when  he  approached  that  city.  Sing  of  this,  ye 
poets.  The  evening  is  fine,  the  stars  glisten.  There  is  a 
beautiful  girl  in  the  inn  at  Cisterna :  look  at  her,  ye  poets, 
and  sing  of  the  fair  lily  in  the  marshes. 

THE  SECOND   DAY'S  JOURNEY. 
THE  VETTURINO   HORSES. 

Now  pray  go  a  little  steadily  ;  not  at  a  gallop  !  There  b  a 
carriage  on  before  us  ;  we  must  not  go  past  it.  Did  you  not 
hear  it  yourself  ?  There  are  German  ladies  in  it ;  they  have 


122  A   POETS  BAZAAR. 

no  gentleman  with  them,  and  have  begged  to  be  in  our  com 
pany,  being  afraid  of  robbers  !  It  is  not  safe  here,  for  we 
heard  the  balls  whistle  past  us  at  this  place  years  ago. 


The  rain  pours  down !  Everything  stands  in  water.  The 
reed  huts  seem  as  if  they  would  sail  away  from  the  inundated 
green  islands.  Let  us  gallop  on.  The  road  here  is  so  even. 
There  stands  a  splendid  cloister ;  the  monks  are  gone  ;  the 
vapors  from  the  swamp  drove  them  away,  and  the  cloister 
stands  with  a  green  mould  on  the  walls  and  marble  columns. 
Grass  grows  on  the  floors,  and  the  bats  fly  under  the  cupola. 
We  will  run  in  through  the  open  gate,  right  into  the  church 
and  stop  there.  Then  you  shall  see  how  the  lady  we  draw 
has  become  a  beautiful  marble  image  of  fear.  Then  you 
shall  hear  our  orchestra-leader  sing ;  his  voice  is  so  fine. 
He  will  sing  a  hymn  for  his  safety,  and  both  the  poets  will 
tell  the  world  about  that  dangerous  adventure  in  the  Pontine 
Marshes. 

THE  VETTURINO   HORSES. 

Take  care  of  the  whip !  Keep  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
We  shall  soon  be  in  Terracina  :  there  we  shall  rest ;  and  we 
shall  rest  on  the  frontiers,  and  at  the  custom-house.  This  is 
the  best  part  of  the  whole  journey. 

PEGASUS. 

The  sun  shines  on  the  orange  colored  rocks  ;  the  marshes 
he  behind  us.  Three  tall  palm-trees  stand  close  by  the  way- 
side. We  are  in  Terracina.  What  has  become  of  our  com- 
pany ?  One  of  the  poets  climbed  the  high  rocks  amongst  the 
cactuses  ;  round  about  are  gardens  with  citron  and  oranges ; 
every  branch  bends  with  the  yellow,  shining  fruit ;  he  as- 
cends the  ruins  of  Theoderic's  castle,  looks  over  the  gras* 
grown  marshes  toward  the  north,  and  his  heart  sings,  — 

"  My  wife, 

My  sweet  smelling  rose ! 
And  thou,  my  darling !  my  all,  my  life, 
My  loved  one  and  my  pleasure  : 
Thou  bud  of  my  rose  ! " 

II.    P.    HOLST. 


PEGASUS  AND    THE    VETTURINO  HORSES.        123 

But  the  other  poet  sits  down  by  the  sea ;  yes,  out  in  the  sea, 
on  the  massive  rocks.  He  wets  his  lips  with  the  briny  drops, 
and  exultingly  cries  :  "  Thou  swelling  sea ;  thou  dead,  calm  sea. 
Thou,  like  myself,  dost  embrace  the  whole  earth  ;  it  is  thy 
bride,  it  is  thy  muse !  Thou  singest  of  it  in  the  storm  ;  in  thy 
rest  thou  dreamest  of  heaven,  thou  clear,  transparent  sea !  " 

THE  VETTURINO   HORSES. 

They  were  capital  oats  we  got  at  Terracina !  The  road  was 
also  very  good,  and  we  stopped  so  pleasantly  long  at  the  cus- 
toms in  Fondi.  See,  now  we  are  going  up  the  mountains ! 
Where  are  we  going  to  ?  First  up  and  then  down  —  very 

pleasant  this  ! 

PEGASUS. 

The  weeping-willows  wave  in  the  wind  !  The  road  up  the 
side  of  the  mountain  winds  like  a  snake  past  ruined  walls  and 
olive  woods,  touched  by  the  rays  of  the  evening  sun.  There 
is  a  picturesque  town  on  the  rocks  above  us,  and  peasants 
driving  on  the  road  here  below  !  There  is  poetry  in  these 
mountains  !  Come  hither,  ye  who  can  sing,  and  get  up  on  my 
back.  My  poets  there  in  the  carriage  sit  idling.  We  push  on 
in  the  still  starlight  evening,  on  past  the  Cyclops'  wall,  where 
the  rank  ivy  hangs  like  curtains  over  the  caverns  that  perhaps 
conceal  a  robber.  Away,  past  the  mouldering  tomb  where 
Cicero  fell  under  the  murderer's  dagger.  We  approach  his 
villa  between  high  laurel  hedges  and  shining  citrons.  To- 
night we  will  dream  in  Mola  di  Gaeta. 

THE  VETTURINO   HORSES. 

That,  sure  enough,  was  a  devil  of  a  road !  How  we  shall  eat, 
how  we  shall  drink,  if  the  oats  only  be  good  and  the  water 
fresh !  May  each  of  us  find  our  manger. 

THE   THIRD    DAY'S   JOURNEY. 
PEGASUS. 

The  beautiful  Signora  sat  under  the  leafy  roof  of  the  orange- 
trees.  One  of  the  poets  read  Italian  poems  aloud  with  a  clear 
sounding  voice  ;  the  leader  of  the  choir  leaned  against  the  tall 


124  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

citron-tree  and  listened,  whilst  he  looked  through  the  cypresses 
on  the  sea,  where  the  sun's  rays  fell  on  the  white  sails  of  the 
ships.  The  second  poet  wandered  in  the  fields,  plucked  red 
anemones,  bound  wreaths,  took  now  and  then  a  glittering 
orange,  then  two,  and  they  flew  like  golden  apples  up  into  the 
pure  air.  There  was  joy  in  his  heart,  there  was  song  on  his 
lips  !  he  felt:  "  I  am  again  in  Italy  !  " 

In  the  stable  stood  the  horses,  each  with  its  head  in  a  man- 
ger ;  they  also  were  well  off.  But  where  I  stood,  I,  Pegasus, 
there  was  a  little  door  in  the  wall,  and  the  door  was  open.  I 
stuck  my  head  out,  and  looked  over  the  tops  of  the  citron-trees 
and  the  dark  cypresses,  at  the  white  town  in  the  isthmus  of 
the  sea,  and  I  neighed,  so  that  I  think  the  poets  must  have 
known  me  by  my  neighing. 

THEVETTURINO  HORSES. 

So,  now  we  are  going  on  again  to  Santa  Agatha,  there  the 
fodder  is  good ;  and  then  to  Capua,  that  strong  fortification 
with  bad  water ;  but  then  we  approach  the  end  of  the  journey. 

PEGASUS. 

How  blue  the  mountains  are ;  how  blue  the  sea  is  ;  and  the  sky 
has  also  its  own  brilliant  blue.  It  is  one  color  in  three  shades ; 
it  is  love  spoken  in  three  different  languages.  See  how  Hie 
stars  glisten  ;  see  how  the  city  before  us  beams  with  light  It 
is  Naples,  that  charming  city,  that  lively  city, Naples  —  Naples  1 
And  then  we  were  in  Naples. 


XIX. 

MALIBRAN-GARCIA   IS   DEAD. 

THE  theatre  St.  Carlo  was  closed,  and  would  be  so  all  the 
time  I  could  stay  in  Naples.  That  large,  splendid  house,  with 
its  bass  reliefs,  appeared  to  me  like  a  tomb  over  the  queen  of 
song  —  her  whom  seven  years  before  I  had  heard  here  for  the 
first  time.  The  queen  of  song,  Malibran-Garcia,  is  dead  !  I 
can  so  clearly  remember  the  first  evening  I  was  here.  They 


MALIBRAN-GARCIA   IS  DEAD. 


125 


performed  the  opera  of  "  Norm  a,"  which  was  then  new.  I 
knew  it  not ;  and  I  had  never  heard  Malibran. 

The  house  was  filled  ;  my  heart  beat  with  expectation. 
The  curtain  drew  up,  the  Druids'  chorus  sounded  through  the 
forest,  and  Norma  entered  in  white  clothes,  with  a  wreath 
around  her  brow,  as  if  she  were  the  muse  of  song  herself. 
There  stood  Norma — Malibran.  She  cut  off  the  fresh  oak- 
branch,  and  the  song  commenced  —  yes,  it  was  the  muse  her- 
self. I  had  never  before  heard  such  singing  :  it  was  as  if 
the  heart's  deepest  feelings  were  revealed  in  tones ;  my 
breast  expanded,  I  felt  a  momentary  chill,  such  as  one  always 
feels  when  something  divine  is  revealed  to  us. 

She  ceased,  and  a  storm  of  applause  filled  the  whole  house  ; 
but  there  was  also  a  piercing  whistle  —  only  one,  but  it  rose 
above  through  all ;  the  envious  snake  hissed  the  queen  of 
song.  A  hundred  hands  were  clinched  at  the  indignity,  a 
thousand  voices  had  not  power  to  deafen  it.  But  I  had 
only  ear  and  eye  for  her.  What  singing,  what  playing  !  and 
it  was  a  handsome  woman  I  saw.  "  Eviva  la  divina!"  re- 
sounded from  every  place  in  that  large,  full  house.  Flowers 
fell  around  her  in  showers  ;  and  the  snake  hissed  between  the 
flowers. 

I  heard  Malibran  afterward  in  "La  Prova,"  and  in  "The 
Barber  of  Seville."  What  life,  what  humor!  all  were  carried 
away  by  it.  There  was  an  exultation,  a  real  Neapolitan  ap- 
plause, such  as  we  have  no  idea  of  in  the  North.  Voices 
cross  each  other  with  the  most  enthusiastic  exclamations ;  a 
hundred  voices  join  in,  and  sing  the  theme  of  the  song  when 
it  is  ended.  In  their  transports  they  imagine  they  also  can 
sing.  All  eyes  brighten  ;  men  spring  up  on  the  benches  \ 
they  applaud  with  hands  and  feet ;  flowers,  poems,  rosettes, 
and  even  living  pigeons  fly  from  the  pit  and  boxes  ? 

It  was  at  the  same  season  of  the  year  as  now  that  I  heard 
Malibran  in  Naples.  Everything  had  then  the  fragrance  of 
newness  ;  a  southern  warmth  and  radiance  lay  over  the  whole 
—  and  now,  how  changed  ! 

At  that  time  there  arose  a  volume  of  smoke  every  day  from 
the  crater  of  Vesuvius ;  at  night  it  became  a  mass  of  fire, 
which  was  reflected  in  the  clear  bay.  Now,  on  the  contrary, 


126  A  POET'S  BAZAAR. 

there  lay  a  thick  mist  around  the  crater  —  the  giant  slept 
within. 

At  that  time  I  saw  "the  blue  grotto,"  whose  depth  is  shin- 
ing water,  whose  walls  vie  in  color  with  the  corn-flower's 
leaf,  and  which  no  poet  can  describe,  nor  painter  show  us. 
It  was  now  almost  always  closed  by  storm  and  surge. 

Vesuvius,  Capri's  grotto,  and  Pompeii,  the  city  of  the  dead, 
were  to  me  the  three  wonders  of  Naples,  and  of  these,  the  city 
of  the  dead  alone  greeted  me  unchanged  ;  only  in  what  be- 
longed to  the  dead  I  again  found  what  my  memory  valued 
and  had  sung  to  me  of  Naples.  In  the  city  of  the  dead  I 
thought  of  the  dead.  I  thought  of  Malibran-Garcia,  the  bird 
of  song,  in  whose  tones  I  had  found  the  expression  of  all  that 
my  mind  now  felt  for  Italy's  wonders  and  beauty.  Italy  and 
Malibran  were,  in  my  mind,  related,  like  the  words  and  mel- 
ody of  a  cherished  song  ;  I  could  not  separate  them  ;  and 
now  she  was  dead  —  she,  who  in  so  much  of  what  we  admire, 
was  so  like  Byron,  found  her  death  in  that  land  which  gave 
him  life. 

On  one  of  the  last  evenings  that  I  was  in  Naples,  I  crossed 
the  Largo  del  Castello.  The  facade  of  the  little  theatre  here 
was  covered  with  paintings,  which  portrayed  the  most  attract- 
ive scenes  of  the  opera  or  farce  that  was  to  be  performed 
within.  I  went  to  Teatro  del  Fondo,  where  the  company  from 
St.  Carlo  performed  opera.  This  evening  it  was  "  Norma." 
Miss  Kemble,  whose  name  is  praised  in  the  newspapers,  took 
the  part  of  Norma. 

Had  England  given  a  living  one  for  the  dead  ?  Miss  Kem- 
ble sang  —  the  Neapolitans  sat  still,  quite  still.  I  think  they 
mourned. 

Malibran-Garcia  is  dead  1 


XX. 

A  PROSPECT  FROM  MY  WINDOW  IN  NAPLES. 

IT  is  Piazza  Florentina  we  see  —  a  place  just  as  broad  as  a 
common  street  with  us  in  the  North,  and  the  length  is  in  pro- 


A  PROSPECT  FROM  MY  WINDOW  JN  NAPLES. 

portion  to  the  breadth.  Opposite  to  this,  and  close  by  a  nar- 
row crooked  street,  extends  the  facade  of  a  little  church,  over 
the  open  entrance  to  which  the  neighboring  dames  have  hung 
all  their  clothes  out  to  dry,  from  the  mysteries  which  should 
not  be  seen,  to  the  variegated  gowns  that  should  be  seen. 
Two  young  priests  reading  their  book  of  the  Evangelists,  walk 
up  and  down  the  entrance  hall.  Outside  sits  an  old  woman 
selling  money.  She  is  the  poor  man's  money-changer  ;  the 
open  place  is  her  office ;  the  little  table,  whose  leaf  is  a  box 
with  brass  wires  across,  is  her  cash  chest ;  and  therein  lie  the 
small  coins  which  she,  for  a  percentage,  sells  for  the  larger 
ones.  But  the  trade  does  not  answer  well.  Close  by  her 
stands  a  fruit  shop,  variegated  like  a  picture  cut  out  of  an 
ABC  book,  with  oranges  and  lemons.  The  picture  above 
the  door,  where  Madonna  quenches  the  thirst  of  souls  in  pur- 
gatory, is  a  very  suitable  sign.  The  whole  place  is  paved 
with  broad  lava  stones ;  the  poor  horses  cannot  keep  their 
footing,  and  are  therefore  beaten  amidst  screams  and  shouts. 
Not  less  than  sixteen  shoemakers  sit  and  sew  there  to  the 
left ;  the  two  nearest  the  door  have  already  lighted  their  can- 
dles ;  they  pull  the  cap  off  that  poor  boy,  and  throw  oranges 
at  him  ;  he  seems  to  protest  against  their  being  applied  exter- 
nally. In  all  the  houses,  the  ground-floors  are  without  win- 
dows, but  with  broad,  open  shop  doors.  Outside  one  they 
are  roasting  coffee,  outside  another  they  are  boiling  a  soup  of 
chestnuts  and  bread,  and  the  man  has  many  customers.  Fel- 
lows dressed  in  rags  eat  out  of  broken  pots.  In  the  highest 
stories  of  the  houses  each  window  has  its  balcony,  or  else  it 
goes  along  the  whole  story,  and  has  a  flourishing  garden,  in 
which  are  large  tubs,  with  orange  and  lemon-trees.  The 
ripe  fruit  amongst  the  green  leaves  shines  like  the  Hesperian 
fruit.  An  Englishman,  in  his  dressing-gown,  has  his  rocking- 
chair  out  there.  Now  the  chair  falls  backward,  and  the 
Briton  strikes  the  stars  with  his  proud  head.  But  far  above 
the  church  and  houses  rises  the  rock  of  St.  Elmo,  with  its 
fortress ;  the  evening  sun  shines  on  the  white  walls,  towers, 
and  telegraph.  Now  the  sun  is  down  and  the  bells  ring  the 
Ave  Maria.  People  stream  into  the  church ;  the  lamps 
within  shine  through  the  windows.  The  tavern  keeper  puts 
lights  in  his  white  paper  lantern  ;  the  shoemakers  have  each 


128  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

his  lamp  ,  it  is  a  complete  illumination.  The  little  old  woman 
shuts  up  her  money  shop,  and  her  boy  lights  her  home  with  a 
candle  in  a  paper  bottle.  There  is  song  in  the  church,  and 
there  are  noises  in  the  streets ;  they  harmonize  strangely  to- 
gether. But  what  is  that  ?  There  is  a  procession  coming 
from  the  narrow  street  White  figures,  each  with  a  large  can- 
dle in  his  hand ;  four  men  likewise  in  long  white  frocks,  with 
hoods  over  their  heads,  bear  on  their  shoulders  a  bier  with 
red  drapery  ;  a  young  girl  dressed  like  a  bride,  with  a  veil 
and  wreath  of  white  roses  around  her  brow,  lies  on  the  bier. 
Every  one  takes  his  hat  off  for  the  dead,  and  the  shoemakers 
kneel. 

The  procession  is  now  in  the  church,  and  the  same  noise 
is  heard  in  the  streets  as  before. 

That  little  square  is  a  faithful  picture  of  this  large  Naples  j 
yes,  a  very  true  one  ;  for  the  poet  sat  at  his  window,  and  drew 
every  feature  of  what  he  saw  below. 

Toward  midnight  we  will  once  more  look  out  and  see  what 
passes.  All  is  still  in  the  square  ;  not  a  light  is  to  be  seen 
except  that  dim  lamp  before  the  image  of  Madonna  in  the 
entrance  hall  of  the  church.  Now  there  are  footsteps.  Some 
one  strikes  his  stick  on  the  pavement.  It  is  a  merry  lad  ;  he 
goes  past,  and  sings  of  La  Figlia  del  regimcnto,  with  all  his 
heart,  and  with  a  fine  voice  "  viva  la  gioja  I  "  and  he  goes  to 
find  it ;  his  warm  blood,  and  his  glowing  thoughts  tell  him 
where  it  is  to  be  found.  Still  many  instruments  join  in.  The 
whole  place  is  transformed  into  an  orchestra  ;  a  manly  bass 
voice  sings  a  bravura !  they  bring  a  serenade  to  the  beauteous 
one  !  Hear  how  fine  it  is  :  "  Te  voglio  bene  assai/"  Will  the 
window  not  open  ?  Will  she  not  step  out  into  the  balcony  ? 
No,  not  she  !  All  is  still  in  every  house ;  the  musicians 
depart,  and  the  square  is  again  empty  1  A  shadow  moves 
along  the  house ;  some  few  notes  sound  from  the  guitar,  but 
no  song  !  All  is  still  within  ;  yet  another  touch  of  the  guitar, 
and  the  street  door  opens  quite  gently.  The  young  lover 
glides  in!  "  Fclicissima  notte  /"  "Good-night,  and  sleep 
well !  "  we  say  in  the  North,  and  it  is  a  very  good  wish ! 
He  who  sleeps  commits  no  sin.  The  Italians,  on  the  con- 
trary, say :  "  Felicissima  notte  I "  and  the  southern  sun  glows 
in  this  "good-night !  " 


A   NEAPOLITAN  CORRICOLO.  I2Q 


XXI. 

A  NEAPOLITAN  CORRICOLO. 

ONE  must  see  it  in  its  flight ;  one  must  see  it  packed  with 
persons,  above  and  below,  before  and  behind.  It  is  a  little 
mass  of  human  beings,  who  roll  forward  on  two  large  carriage 
wheels  drawn  by  a  poor,  jaded  hack  so  hung  round  with  plates 
and  tassels,  bells  and  pictures  of  saints,  that  it  might  well 
serve  the  purpose  of  a  wandering  sign  for  a  broker's  shop. 

The  cabriolet  whirls  past  us,  over  the  broad  lava-stone 
paved  street.  What  sort  of  company  is  that  ?  What  are  they 
thinking  of? 

The  driver  with  the  large  pea-jacket  slung  over  his  shoulder, 
and  with  half-naked  brown  arm,  curses  in  his  heart  the  steam 
carriage  which,  light  as  a  swallow,  shoots  down  the  road  to 
Portici,  past  green  vineyards,  shining  villas,  and  rocking  boats. 

There  sit  two  ladies  close  by  his  side  ;  the  one  has  a  very 
large  infant ;  she  handles  it  like  a  package  without  value. 
Their  thoughts  are  in  the  church  :  "  St.  Joseph  clothes  the 
naked,"  —  they  come  from  thence.  Woolen  and  linen,  frocks 
and  jackets  are  given  to  St.  Joseph,  Madonna,  and  Bambino ; 
the  whole  church  was  hung  with  good  clothes  ;  it  was  a  fine 
sight !  A  complete  shop  !  and  next  day  the  clothes  are  to  be 
given  out. 

"  I  wonder  who  will  get  that  splendid  red  frock  with  the 
large  puffs  and  broad  flounce  ? "  See,  that  is  worth  having 
in  one's  thoughts. 

On  the  seat,  besides  the  coachman,  the  two  ladies,  and  the 
infant,  is  a  respectable  man  :  he  generally  stands  by  the  door 
of  Museo  Borbonico,  and  earns  a  trifle  by  taking  care  of  the 
sticks  and  umbrellas  for  the  many  strangers  who  go  there  daily 
to  see  the  splendid  statues,  paintings,  and  exhumed  articles. 
He  has  just  now  got  it  into  his  head  that  most  of  the  strangers 
in  the  galleries  might  be  likened  to  auctioneers,  who  only  go 
about  and  look,  that  they  may  have  every  piece  written  down 
in  their  catalogue.  There's  a  thought ! 

Besides  the  coachman,  the  two  ladies,  the  infant,  and  the  re- 
spectable man,  there  is  not  room  for  more  on  the  vehicle  ;  but 
9 


'30 


A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 


yet  there  sits  another,  a  young  lad,  with  a  face  so  brown  and 
handsome,  such  a  genuine  Neapolitan  one !  —  what  cou  Id  not 
one  do  in  the  North  with  his  eyes  !  However,  he  does  not  sit 
well,  and  has  therefore  laid  his  arm  on  one  of  the  Signora's 
shoulders  ;  but  Signora  is  somewhat  old.  He  looks  to  one 
side,  and  thinks  of  the  grotto  of  Posilippo,  the  ancient  road 
which  goes  through  the  mountain,  under  gardens  and  villas,  — 
a  road  where  it  would  be  eternal  night  if  lamps  did  not  burn 
within. 

He  lately  passed  through  it ;  carriages  whirled  past  him  ; 
a  herd  of  goats,  all  with  bells  about  their  necks,  bleated 
aloud  —  who  could  hear  anything  ?  And  into  the  bargain 
there  came  an  Englishman  riding  at  full  trot :  who  could  help 
being  perplexed  ?  and  such  was  the  case  with  a  poor  girl. 
She  sprang  quite  frightened  into  the  arms  of  our  young  lad  ; 
she  did  not  intend  to  do  so ;  but  what  will  one  not  do  in  a 
fright !  The  lamp  shone  right  on  her  face,  and  that  face  was 
beautiful ;  so  the  lad  kissed  her,  —  he  is  now  thinking  of  that 
kiss  and  that  face ;  and  that  is  the  reason  he  looks  so  glad. 

The  coachman,  the  two  Signoras,  the  infant,  the  respectable 
man,  and  the  lad,  —  too  many  for  one  seat,  yet  there  sits  an- 
other on  it,  a  stout  monk  ;  but  how  he  sits  the  Lord  only 
knows  ;  and  what  he  thinks  —  that  I  dare  not  say  !  He  has 
a  prodigiously  large  umbrella  with  him  ;  he  is  goodness  itself: 
he  holds  the  infant  whilst  the  lady  loosens  her  neckerchief; 
but  now  positively  no  more  can  be  accommodated,  and  there- 
fore that  half  grown  lad  stands  up  before  the  party,  whilst 
his  little  brother  sits  at  his  feet  and  dangles  his  thin  legs 
against  the  horse's  tail.  The  two  boys  belong  to  the  theatre  ; 
that  is  to  say,  the  children's  theatre  or  puppet  show,  where 
they  perform  tragedies  and  ballets.  The  two  boys  speak  in 
female  voices  ;  the  one  is  to  act  the  part  of  Queen  Dido  this 
evening  and  the  other  her  sister  Anna  ;  and  so  they  are  think- 
ing about  it. 

Behind  the  vehicle  are  two  fellows ;  I  think  they  each  stand 
on  a  stick,  for  that  little  bit  of  board  stuck  out  behind  is  occu- 
pied by  an  old  fisherman  who  rides  backward,  and  has  his 
eyes  and  thoughts  turned  toward  a  sedan  chair  in  which  sits 
a  lady,  dressed  out  and  quite  stiff,  with  tinsel  and  rosettes  on 


DEPARTURE  FROM  ITALY. 

her  head.  She  is  a  midwife  they  are  carrying  across  the 
street :  yes,  she  certainly  sits  much  more  comfortably  than 
he  does.  ^ 

One  of  the  fellows  beside  him  is  a  sort  of —  messenger  — 
we  will  therefore  not  enter  into  his  thoughts ;  the  other  is  a 
genius  of  a  pickpocket :  his  thoughts  are  just  now  fixed  on  that 
red  handkerchief  peeping  out  of  a  pedestrian's  pocket.  The 
fellow  is  vexed  at  his  ride  ;  it  will  cost  him  two  small  coins, 
and  —  that  handkerchief. 

See,  now  there  cannot  be  any  more,  neither  before  nor  be- 
hind, neither  above  nor  below.  I  say  below  !  —  for  there  we 
have  not  yet  looked,  and  there  are  a  living  turkey,  and  a  man  ! 
Yes,  in  that  swinging  net  under  the  vehicle  are  a  turkey  and 
a  ragged  fellow ;  his  head  and  legs  stick  outside  the  net ;  he 
has  only  shirt  and  trousers  on,  but  he  is  of  a  strong,  healthy 
appearance.  He  is  extremely  well  pleased  —  and  he  has  noth- 
ing to  think  about ! 

See,  that  is  a  Neapolitan  corricolo  ! 


xxn. 

DEPARTURE  FROM  ITALY. 

I. 
A  GLANCE  AT  MYSELF. 

IT  was  on  the  i$th  of  March,  1841.  Portmanteau  and  trav- 
elling-bag were  packed,  locked,  and  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  :  the  porter  came  up  the  stairs  as  soon  as  they  were 
ready,  to  take  them  away.  I  was  about  to  leave  Naples  and 
Italy,  and  I  was  glad  of  it.  How  mankind  changes  ! 

When  I  left  this  land  before,  I  was  inwardly  grieved  and 
sorrowful ;  but  then  it  was  homeward,  toward  the  North. 
Now,  on  the  contrary,  it  was  to  Greece,  and  the  East. 

My  readers  will  pardon  my  dwelling  for  a  few  moments  on 
my  own  person,  but  it  will  only  be  whilst  the  porter  bears  my 
luggage  down  the  stairs. 

I  have  previously  given  sketches  of  Italy,  which,  I  am  told. 


132  A    POET'S  BAZAAR. 

almost  breathe  of  this  land's  sunlight  and  beauty.  Now,  on 
the  contrary,  many  of  these  pictures  are  dashed  with  strong 
shadows ;  but  they  are  as  I  saw  Italy  at  the  time ;  the  odor 
of  freshness  and  newness  was  gone.  The  winter  was  un- 
usually severe,  and  I  myself  was  both  bodily  and  mentally  ill. 
Here  in  Naples,  but  a  few  days  ago,  fever  raged  in  my  blood. 
I  was,  perhaps,  near  death.  I  believe  the  grim  tyrant  looked 
through  the  door  at  me,  but  it  was  not  yet  time ;  he  went 
away,  and  the  goddess  of  health  stood  where  he  had  stood. 
The  spring  came  just  as  suddenly ;  the  snow  on  the  moun- 
tains around  wasted  away,  and  the  sea  was  clear  and  blue. 

A  new  journey  —  perhaps  a  new  life  —  was  to  begin.     This 
last  hour  was  transition's  link. 


IL 

LEONIDAS. 

The  French  war-steamer  Leonidas,  Captain  Lorin  com- 
mander, lay  in  the  harbor  of  Naples.  My  friend  and  fellow- 
traveller,  Mr.  H.  P.  Hoist,1  accompanied  me  to  the  vessel. 
Everything  on  board  appeared  foreign  to  me.  I  myself  was 
foreign  to  them  all.  A  sick  Turk  lay  on  some  mats,  which 
they  had  spread  out  on  the  coal-sacks ;  close  by  him  sat  a 
figure  in  a  wadded  green  caftan  and  a  white  turban,  who, 
during  the  last  few  days,  had  attracted  the  public  attention  in 
Naples  by  his  oriental  dress  ;  he  was,  as  I  afterwards  heard, 
a  Persian  from  Herat.  One  passenger  after  another  came  on 
board :  Americans  and  Italian  monks,  French  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen, people  from  all  parts  of  the  world,  but  none  from  the 
North,  or  from  its  brother  land,  Germany. 

The  signal  pipe  sounded  to  clear  the  vessel.  Hoist  bade 
me  farewell !  It  was  as  if  I  were  to  hear  a  Danish  voice  for 
the  last  time,  as  if  my  native  land  and  all  my  dear  friends 
spoke  this  "  farewell ! "  Now  for  the  first  time  it  appeared 
to  me  that  I  was  going  into  the  wide  world. 

I  stood  by  the  bulwark  of  the  vessel ;  my  eye  followed  the 

1  Mr.  Hoist  is  a  Danish  poet  of  some  celebrity. — Trans. 


DEPARTURE  FROM  ITALY.  133 

boat,  which  directed  its  course  with  my  friend  toward  the  land. 
Hats  were  mutually  waved.  He  called  out  "  farewell "  once 
more  from  the  shore. 

The  anchor  was  weighed ;  everything  was  clear  on  board, 
and  yet  we  lay  still.  All  the  passports  were  forgotten,  and  an 
officer  was  obliged  to  go  on  shore  for  them.  We  lay  waiting 
for  half  an  hour. 

Whilst  we  are  waiting,  I  will  make  my  readers  acquainted 
with  the  arrangements  and  conveniences  of  a  French  war- 
steamer,  as  far  as  I  can  recollect  them.  The  deck  itself 
formed  a  little  street;  above  the  nedder,  and  hanging  over 
the  water,  was  a  small,  pretty  house  for  the  captain,  in  which 
was  a  saloon.  Paintings  and  sailing  charts  hung  on  the  walls  ; 
long  curtains  fluttered  at  the  open  windows,  and  between  these 
stood  divans,  statues,  and  a  piano-forte.  It  was  not  only  com- 
fortable, but  elegant.  Two  other  wooden  houses,  each  with 
its  cabins  for  the  rest  of  the  officers,  adjoined  that  of  the 
captain's.  On  the  little  open  space  without  stood  the  helms- 
man at  the  wheel.  An  hour-glass  and  a  large  handsome 
clock  were  close  by  him ;  the  cabin-boy  struck  the  hours  and 
quarters  on  a  large  metal  bell,  which  could  be  heard  over  the 
whole  ship. 

Before  the  wheel  was  a  flight  of  stairs  covered  with  carpet, 
^ith  a  cast  iron  balustrade,  leading  down  into  the  chief  cabin, ' 
where  the  ladies  had  their  own  pretty  saloon  and  separate 
state  rooms  ;  the  gentlemen  had  each  his  own  room  ;  and 
there  was  a  large  splendid  saloon,  used  also  as  a  dining-room. 
Handsome  mirrors  shone  on  the  bright,  polished,  inlaid  walls  ; 
polished  marble  columns  supported  the  roof,  and  there  were  a 
piano,  a  library,  engravings,  and  newspapers. 

The  machinery  occupied  the  middle  part  of  :he  vessel ; 
above  this,  on  the  deck,  were  erected  wooden  houses,  resem- 
bling the  officers';  a  few  steps  led  up  to  each  door,  and  here 
the  steward,  steersman,  cook,  and  purveyor  had  each  his  berth. 
Here  was  a  larder,  a  wine-cellar,  and  the  Lord  knows  what 
else  ;  behind  these  houses  was  a  sort  of  balcony  :  it  extended 
from  both  sides  of  the  ship  over  the  water,  which  we  could 
see  through  the  open  railings  ;  and  here  it  was,  during  the 
voyage,  that  they  washed  potatoes,  clothes,  and  vessels  of  all 


A   fO£T'S  BAZAAR. 

kinds.     They  were,  as  one  may  say,  the  two  back-yards  of 
the  ship. 

The  galley  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  deck.  It  was  a 
complete  house  of  cast-iron,  and  quite  filled  with  pots,  kettles, 
saucepans,  and  all  sorts  of  kitchen  utensils.  Here  was  roast- 
ing, boiling,  and  frying ! 

Close  by  this,  a  flight  of  stairs  led  down  into  the  second 
cabin,  which  consisted  of  a  fine  large  eating-room,  which  was 
also  a  sleeping  chamber.  In  the  side  rooms  there  was  accom- 
modation for  from  four  to  eight  persons.  The  stairs  leading 
down  into  the  third  cabin  were  in  the  forepart  of  the  vessel. 
They  were  somewhat  steep  ;  but  when  we  once  got  down  them, 
we  found  a  light,  comfortable  room.  The  divans  ranged  along 
the  walls  served  as  sleeping  places. 

The  fourth  place  was  on  deck,  and  it  was  incredibly  cheap. 
For  one  rix-dollar,  Danish  (about  half  a  crown  English),  a 
man  may  be  accommodated  here,  and  be  carried  several  hun 
dred  miles.  In  the  East,  even  the  better  class  of  Turks 
choose  this  department  of  the  vessel. 

Here  in  the  North  we  cannot  form  any  idea  of  the  comfort 
and  cheapness  of  these  Mediterranean  steam-vessels.  The 
Americans  on  board,  as  I  afterwards  learned,  knew  how  to 
value  the  treatment  they  received ;  but  not  as  I  did.  They 
spoke  of  the  swiftness  of  their  vessels,  and  the  great  luxury 
on  board.  "  In  twelve  days,"  said  they,  "  we  have  gone  from 
America  to  Europe." 

It  was  fine  weather,  and  there  was  gayety  on  board.  A 
theatre  was  constructed  in  the  large  cabin,  and  comedies  were 
performed  three  evenings  during  the  passage  over  the  ocean. 
They  were  vaudevilles  by  Scribe,  and  some  of  the  officers 
played  the  ladies'  parts.  The  orchestra  consisted  of  eight 
persons ;  the  audience  partook  of  ices  and  punch  ;  the  per- 
formers were  applauded,  and  called  out ;  and  all  this  on  the 
wide  ocean  ! 

Grateful  was  I  that  the  French  steamer  could  offer  such 
recreations. 

After  waiting  a  long  time,  the  officer  who  had  been  sent  for 
the  passports  returned.  The  steam  whistled  no  longer  out  of 
the  blow-pipe ;  the  command  was  given,  and  we  shot  our  way 


THE  STEAMER'S  PASSAGE, 


'35 


out  of  Naples  harbor,  which,  refracting  the  sun's  rays,  was  as 
if  filled  with  floating  lemon  and  orange  peel. 

We  were  not  two  miles  from  land  when  the  vessel  stopped. 
Something  was  broken  in  the  machinery,  but  we  had  a  smithy 
on  board.  It  was  soon  in  order,  and  again  we  were  on  our 
way.  • 

Addio  Napoli  !  a  rivedercil 


XXIII. 
THE  STEAMER'S  PASSAGE. 

A  POET  sings,  because,  like  the  bird,  he  cannot  help  it : 
something  swells  in  his  breast,  and  in  his  thoughts.  The 
song  will  out :  it  spreads  like  the  light,  it  rises  like  the  waves. 
But  very  often  Nature  places  a  leaf  of  her  great  music-book 
before  him,  and  it  is  a  challenge  to  sing  —  and  then  he  sings 
from  her  notes. 

Naples  and  the  whole  coast  lay  like  a  large  piece  of  music 
before  me  —  a  song  without  words. 

"  It  is  sweet  to  fly  over  the  sea !  " 

Naples,  thou  white,  sunlit  city !  The  swarms  of  beings 
with  song  and  shout  flow  like  streaming  lava  through  thy 
streets  ;  we  hear  the  sounds  ;  town  after  town  winds  like  a 
serpent  about  the  bay  ;  Naples  is  this  serpent's  head,  and  SL 
Elmo  the  crown  it  bears. 

"  It  is  sweet  to  fly  over  the  sea  !  " 

Heavy  clouds  envelop  the  top  of  Vesuvius  ;  they  hang  as 
far  down  as  the  hermit's  cell,  but  fire  burns  within  the  moun- 
tain ;  it  burns  far  under  the  sea,  as  it  burns  in  the  middle  of 
our  ship,  and  in  my  heart ;  everything  is  a .  volcano  i  See, 
the  steam  carriage  darts  along  the  road  by  the  gulf,  like  a 
fiery  rocket.  There,  between  the  orange  groves,  lies  Sor- 
rento :  the  pine  by  the  sea  shadows  Tasso's  house.  The 
rocks  stand  out  in  the  sea  like  petrified  clouds.  The  moun- 
tain goat  springs  about  the  naked  promontory.  Capri,  I  greet 
thee,  thou  adventurous  island  !  I  remember  thy  palm-trees 
under  the  wild  rocks ;  I  remember  thy  strange  azure-blue 


136  A  POET'S  BAZAAR. 

grotto,  where  the  sea-foam  shines  like  roses,  where  the  stones 
have  colors  like  a  winter  sky  in  the  North :  the  sea  is  a  fire. 
The  ass  walks  over  a  mosaic  floor  on  the  top  of  the  rock,  the 
last  remains  of  Tiberius's  magnificent  saloons.  The  hermit 
kneels  here  in  silent  solitude.  Capri,  isle  of  reminiscences, 
we  rush  past  thee.  The  sun  goes  down,  and  night  advances 
with  her  glittering  host !  The  waves  break  ;  each  wave's  top 
is  like  glowing  embers  ;  the  water  in  our  wake  sheds  light, 
and  the  sky  gives  light ! 

"  It  is  sweet  to  fly  over  the  sea ! " 

Now  it  is  night !  The  ship-boy  calls.  "  Awake  !  awake ! 
Stromboli  glows  !  Come  and  see  !  "  Wrapped  up  in  cloaks, 
we  stand  by  the  gunwale  ;  we  look  in  the  dark  over  the  sea 
which  shines  with  phosphoric  lustre ;  red,  green,  and  blue 
rockets  rise  in  the  horizon  ;  they  now  pour  forth  like  flames 
—  that  is  Stromboli,  the  burning  island  that  arose  from  the 
depths  of  the  sea.  It  is  a  child  of  Etna  ;  she  came  with  her 
sisters  from  the  sea's  depths  out  of  her  mother-country.  The 
oriental  tales  say,  that  on  Sindbad's  voyage  the  sailors  disem- 
barked on  the  back  of  a  fish,  which  they  mistook  for  a  sand- 
bank ;  they  made  a  fire  on  it,  and  the  fish  dived  again  into 
the  sea.  Each  of  the  Lipari  islands  was  also  a  fish  of  the 
abyss ;  men  erect  their  dwellings,  and  live  on  its  back,  —  and 
before  they  know  it,  it  dives  down  with  them. 

We  approached  it  nearer  and  nearer  1  The  stars  glisten, 
the  water  is  afire ! 

"  It  is  sweet  to  fly  over  the  sea  1 " 


XXIV. 

SICILY. 
A  COAST  PANORAMA. 

A  FEW  summers  ago  I  made  the  so-called  Gotha-Canal  voy- 
age through  Sweden.  Out  of  one  part  of  this  we  issue  into 
the  Baltic,  pass  a  number  of  sunken  rocks,  and  through  an 
archipelago  of  islands,  some  of  which  are  so  large  that  they 
afford  pasture  for  whole  droves  of  cattle,  or  bear  a  small  fir 


SICILY.  137 

wood ;  others  are  but  naked  stones,  against  which  the  waves 
break.  We  took  a  pilot  at  these  islands,  and  all  the  passen- 
gers had  to  divide  themselves,  so  that  there  were  about  equal 
numbers  on  each  side  of  the  vessel.  Large  blocks  of  wood 
hung  over  the  gunwale  to  resist  a  probable  shock  against  the 
rocks,  and  the  steamer  had  now  to  pass  a  whirlpool.  A  mo- 
mentary silence  and  attention  reigned  on  deck.  The  water 
spouted  up  before  the  cutwater  ;  it  was  as  if  an  unseen  hand 
seized  the  ship  and  swung  it  about.  The,  rocks  lay  behind 
us  ;  we  had  passed  over  the  whirlpool.  I  have  not  read  in 
any  geography  of  such  an  eddy  under  the  Swedish  coast ;  but 
on  the  contrary,  the  whirlpools  of  Sicily  were  well  known  to 
me.  Scylla  and  Charybdis  are  far-famed  names. 

Our  ship  glided  away  over  the  eddying  Charybdis  ;  we 
had  no  foreboding  of  it.  Where  is  that  wild  maelstrom? 
They  pointed  to  the  sea  close  by  where  we  sailed  ;  but  there 
was  no  particular  motion  of  the  waves  to  be  seen.  Where  is 
Scylla?  "Yes,  she  still  lives."  They  pointed  to  a  little  jut- 
ting rock  with  a  dark,  ruinous  tower,  on  the  wild  coast  of 
Calabria.  There  was  a  heavy  surf  here,  though  the  sea  was 
tolerably  calm.  Blackish-gray  rocks  jutted  forth,  against  which 
;he  waves  dashed  with  angry  roar.  It  was  Scylla's  howling 
dog  we  saw.  I  think  they  may  be  able  to  hear  it  in  a  storm 
from  the  sandy  isthmus  of  Messina.  We  approached  it ; 
toward  the  northwest  lay  the  Lipari  islands,  bounding  the 
horizon. 

Sicily,  thou  mighty  tripod  in  the  deep,  clear,  air-covered 
sea,  we  greet  thee  !  Thou  vine-leaf-wreathed  land,  where  gods 
have  lived,  where  heroes  have  fought,  by  whose  coasts  the 
fairy  Morgana  still  builds  her  airy  castles,  we  greet  thee ! 

We  glided  past  the  light-house,  situated  on  the  extreme 
edge  of  a  shoal  of  sand,  where  there  is  a  picturesque  fishing 
village  joining  the  suburbs  of  Messina ;  it  was  as  if  we  saw  a 
fleet  sailing  here  :  a  number  of  ships  were  cruising  about ;  fish- 
ermen hauled  in  their  nets  and  their  boats ;  children  were 
playing  on  the  beach.  Calabria's  rocky  coast  had  a  strange 
green  and  red- brown  appearance,  quite  different  from  the  rocks 
in  the  north  of  Italy  and  Switzerland  ;  they  appeared  to  be 
moss-grown  lava  blocks  ;  the  Sicilian  rocks  resembled  petrified 


138  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

gigantic  bubbles.  It  looked  as  if  the  island  had  boiled  up 
from  the  deep,  and  been  suddenly  transformed  into  stone. 
Heavy  clouds  rested  on  the  mountain,  as  if  they  were  the 
vapors  of  this  ebullition.  Etna  was  not  to  be  seen. 

Behind  us  lay  the  bay  and  Messina  itself  with  its  yellow- 
gray  palaces  and  flat  roofs.  Foreign  flags  waved  in  the  secure 
harbor,  but  I  could  not  discover  the  Danish  flag.  An  eccle- 
siastic from  Rome,  who  stood  by  the  gunwale,  pointed  toward 
the  town,  and  told  us  with  great  importance  about  a  letter 
from  the  mother  of  Christ,  a  genuine  letter,  which  was  found 
in  the  cathedral  church ;  it  was  written  by  her  own  hand  to 
the  inhabitants  of  Messina.  He  grew  eloquent  at  the  remem- 
brance of  their  celebrated  religious  feast,  at  the  splendor  of  the 
church,  and  the  magnificent  pageant.  A  sister  of  his  had 
once  represented  Christ's  mother ;  a  machine  on  wheels,  it 
might  be  called  a  large  house,  filled  with  men  and  women,  old 
and  young,  dressed  as  angels,  prophets,  and  saints,  and  at  the 
top  the  prettiest  female  in  Messina  representing  the  Virgin 
Mary,  was  drawn  through  the  streets  by  priests  and  the  whole 
brotherhood  ! 

"  It  is  glorious  in  Messina  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  Messina  no- 
bilis,  fidelissima  I " 

"  There  are  beautiful  women  !  "  said  a  young  Frenchman  ; 
"  there  are  Scylla  and  Charybdis  ;  they  no  longer  swim  on  the 
water,  but  sit  under  the  vine  leaves,  and  with  their  dark,  glow- 
ing eyes,  beautiful  limbs,  and  enchanting  smile,  enchain  us !  " 

On  Calabria's  side  lay  Reggio,  which  a  few  weeks  previously 
had  suffered  terribly  from  an  earthquake.1  Here  under  the 
coast  a  number  of  vessels  had  stranded  ;  now  everything  lay 
in  a  warm,  smiling  sunlight ;  yet  the  smile  of  the  coast  here 
has  in  it  something  like  witchcraft.  My  thoughts  were  on  the 
millions  whose  hearts  have  beat  with  the  fear  of  death  and 
longing  for  life,  under  these  coasts  ',  the  millions  who  have 
sailed  here,  from  the  time  Ulysses  steered  past  the  cavern  of 

1  The  cathedral,  town  hall,  and  several  public  buildings  were  thrown 
down  ;  in  Naples  I  saw  traces  of  the  earthquake.  Many  of  the  houses 
were  rent  from  top  to  bottom  ;  in  whole  streets  stood  houses  propped  up 
with  large  beams  :  even  in  Rome  there  were  traces  of  the  shock  ;  the 
Tiber  overflowed  its  banks  and  inundated  the  nearest  streets. 


SICILY. 


139 


Polyphemus,  until  now  that  our  arrowy  steamer  glided  over 
this  watery  mirror,  where  Fata  Morgana  shows  her  airy  palace  ; 
but  no  colonnades  of  r^ys,  no  fantastic  cupola  and  Gothic 
towers  arose  on  the  blue  waters.  Yet  the  coast  itself  was  a 
Fata  Morgana  for  the  eye  and  thought. 

Whole  towns  and  beautiful  marble  images  slumber  here  in 
the  deep  grave  of  ashes  and  lava  ;  but  above  them  grow  new 
gardens  and  villas,  and  dark  rocks  stand  threatening,  like 
storm-clouds  in  the  air. 

"  All  the  valleys  there,"  said  the  young  Frenchman,  "  are 
pretty  arbors,  and  in  each  sits  —  not  Amor,  but  those  who  are 
better  than  he  :  the  most  charming  women,  warm  as  Etna, 
and  as  light  as  the  fairy  Morgana  ;  yet  they  do  not  disappear 
as  she  did  when  one  would  seize  them." 

The  nearest  coast  of  Sicily  appeared  to  me  more  wild  than 
attractive.  Val  di  Demona  is  the  name  of  this  district,  and  it 
is  very  appropriate.  Taormina  with  its  marble  quarry  is  on 
the  cliff  above,  from  whence  roars  a  water-fall.  This  was  the 
merry  city  of  the  bacchanals,  where  Pancratius,  a  disciple  of 
the  Apostle  Paul,  threw  the  statue  of  the  god  of  wine  into 
the  sea. 

From  the  magnificent  ruin,  the  theatre  of  the  ancients, 
where  once  a  whole  people  applauded  at  the  performance  of 
Aristophanes  and  Plautus,  the  solitary  herdsman  now  looks 
out  over  the  sea  and  contemplates  the  smoky  column  from  our 
ship  —  our  steaming,  flying  Etna. 

"  But  where  is  Sicily's  Etna  ?  "  I  asked.     "  Shall  we  see  it." 

"  There  it  stands,"  was  the  reply.  But  I  only  saw  heavy 
clouds  above  the  rocky  coast.  I  raised  my  head  still  more, 
looked  almost  upward,  and  there,  above  the  clouds  in  the 
clear  air  stood  the  top  of  Etna,  covered  with  snow  ;  yet  round 
about  the  edge  of  the  crater  it  was  melted  in  long  rifts.  What 
greatness  !  Vesuvius  is  but  a  sand  hill  compared  to  this  giant 
—  Sicily's  pride  and  benefactor.  It  is  an  amphitheatre  for  the 
high  gods  themselves  !  Every  step  forms  a  zone  :  the  lowest 
shows  us  vineyards  and  gardens  ;  the  second  is  a  woody  region, 
with  its  centenarian  trees  ;  the  third  has  but  ice  and  snow ; 
the  fourth  smoke  and  flame.  It  always  smokes,  always  spouts  ; 
but  this  spouting  and  smoking  is  called  repose,  if  the  lava- 


I4O  A  POET'S  BAZAAR. 

stream  does  not  flow  for  miles  around,  and  throw  down  towns, 
or  devastate  vineyards  and  dales. 

We  glided  through  the  Bay  of  Catania  ;  the  waves  rolled 
soft  and  lightly  around.  The  sun  shone  clear  ;  but,  as  far  as 
the  eye  could  penetrate,  Etna  was  covered  with  snow ;  there 
was  still  a  northern  winter.  At  its  foot,  on  the  contrary,  was 
a  southern  summer  with  fresh  flowers,  with  ripe  fruit,  with 
palms  and  Indian  figs. 

After  dinner,  when  we  again  came  on  deck,  the  sun  was  near 
going  down  ;  the  sea  shone  like  purple  and  gold  ;  tht  air  had 
such  a  brilliancy  as  I  have  never  before  seen.  The  coasts  had 
such  a  tone,  so  smiling,  so  rich  in  color,  that  the  whole  wore 
the  appearance  of  the  finest  Asiatic  landscape.  Syracuse  lay 
dreaming,  but  indescribably  beautiful. 

"  Santa  Lucia  was  born  there !  "  said  our  Roman  eccle- 
siastic. 

"  Yes,  and  Archimedes  too,"  added  I.  "  It  is  Agathocles' 
city.  And  there  is  Arethusa's  fountain  !  " 

"  Santa  Lucia  was  God's  daughter  ! "  answered  the  ecclesi- 
astic, and  sighed. 

What  a  sunset !  what  a  sight !  only  to  be  bestowed  by  that 
hand  which  paints  the  beautiful  rainbow  on  the  light,  hovering 
clouds. 

The  sound  of  a  bell  was  heard  from  the  coast ;  its  clang 
was  so  melancholy,  it  was  like  the  last  tones  of  a  dying  swan 
as  it  bends  its  head,  and  descends  on  its  large,  extended 
wings,  from  the  air  into  the  calm,  the  deep  blue  sea. 


XXV. 

MALTA. 

IT  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning :  I  heard  the  anchor 
fall,  and  knew  that  we  lay  in  the  harbor  of  Malta.  I  threw 
my  cloak  around  me,  and  sprang  upon  deck. 

The  first  thing  I  saw  was  the  waning  moon  ;  its  horns  were 
so  thin  and  bent,  and  yet  they  shone  like  the  full  moon  in  the 
North  ;  or,  perhaps,  it  was  the  innumerable  stars  which  caused 


MALTA. 

this  brightness  in  the  air.  Such  a  radiant  firmament  I  had 
never  before  seen,  —  neither  under  the  clear  sky  of  Italy,  nor 
even  in  our  northern  winter  nights.  Venus  seemed  to  be  a 
sun,  immensely  distant,  so  that  it  could  only  show  itself  as  a 
point  —  but  it  was  a  sun's  point.  Her  rays  played  on  the 
water's  surface  in  rivalry  with  the  moon's.  The  stars  in  the 
North  are  but  shining  glass  ;  here  they  are  real  stones.  My 
hands  were  clasped  involuntarily,  my  thoughts  were  with  God 
in  contemplation  of  his  magnificence.  There  was  a  stillness 
round  about ;  not  the  splash  of  an  oar  was  heard  in  the  wa- 
ter, not  a  bell  sounded  ;  all  was  still  as  in  a  deserted  church. 

I  looked  around,  and  behind  me  stood  a  low,  yellow,  rocky 
wall,  whose  highest  point  was  formed  into  an  obelisk  that 
raised  its  head  toward  the  stars.  Opposite  to  me  and  to  the 
sides  shone  large,  strange,  whitish-yellow  palaces,  which  re- 
minded me  of  "The  Arabian  Nights."  But  between  these 
buildings  and  me  lay  one  large  ship  close  by  the  other,  still 
and  dreaming.  My  eye  was  bewildered  amongst  masts.  We 
lay  in  La  Valetta's  Bay :  where  we  had  come  in  I  could  not 
discover. 

This,  then,  was  the  island  which  Homer  has  sung  of,  and 
of  which  the  Phoenicians  had  possessed  themselves  ;  Calyp- 
so's Isle,  where  Ulysses  passed  years  of  his  life  ;  the  Greeks' 
and  Carthaginians'  Melita.  The  island  has  seen  Vandals, 
Goths,  and  Arabians  as  conquerors.  Count  Roger's  Malta, 
the  order  of  St.  John's  far-famed  island,  is  now  England's  sta- 
tion in  the  Mediterranean. 

What  recollections  does  not  this  island  call  forth  !  Yet  the 
starry  firmament  was  to  me  at  that  moment  a  majestic  scene. 
La  Valetta,  and  all  these  proud  vessels  here  under  the  strong- 
est fortification  in  the  world,  were  but  as  the  frame  to  the  pic- 
ture. The  frame  was  splendid,  —  one  of  the  most  splendid  I 
have  seen !  But  that  I  forget  the  frame  for  the  picture  is, 
however,  pardonable  and  just. 

I  retired  again  to  rest,  and,  literally  speaking,  with  "  heaven 
only  in  my  own  thoughts." 

When  I  once  more  ascended  the  deck  the  debarkation  took 
place.  Everything  on  board  and  around  the  vessel  was  life 
and  motion.  The  whole  bay  was  as  if  covered  with  boats. 


142  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

Close  to  us  lay  two  large  war-ships  with  double  rows  of 
guns,  the  one  above  the  other.  Citta  Nuova,  Vittoriosa,  La 
Valetta,  appeared  like  one  large  city.  The  fortifications  cut 
in  the  rock  melted  together  with  the  buildings  themselves. 
The  arsenal,  a  long  Moorish  building,  and  most  of  the  palace- 
like  houses,  all  seemed  to  be  formed  in  the  rock  itself,  as  they 
are  built  of  its  yellow-stone,  and  thus  seem,  as  it  were,  a  part 
of  it. 

Ships  came  and  went ;  the  cannon  saluted  the  fortress, 
and  were  again  answered.  Boats  with  the  quarantine  flag 
rowed  quickly  past  the  large  vessels.  A  number  of  yawls, 
forming  complete  shops,  lay  still  under  the  side  of  our  vessel ; 
some  with  fruit.  To  each  species  a  particular  compartment 
is  devoted.  Citrons  by  themselves,  oranges  likewise,  and 
large  pumpkins  formed  the  border.  There  were  also  figs, 
dates,  raisins,  and  almonds ;  the  whole  formed  a  variegated 
spectacle.  Other  boats  brought  roots  and  vegetables,  and 
others  again  had  shirts,  straw  hats,  and  scarfs  ;  it  was  a  whole 
swimming  market.  There  were  some  wretched  little  boats 
which  seemed  as  though  every  moment  they  would  sink  ;  they 
were  rowed  by  half-naked  boys  who  came  to  beg.  There  was 
a  continual  movement  amongst  the  passengers  who  came 
from  or  went  to  the  steam-vessels,  of  which  no  less  than  seven 
lay  there.  Turks,  Bedouins,  monks,  and  Maltese  women 
rowed  past. 

Below  the  steps  out  of  our  vessel  lay  more  than  a  dozen 
boats  with  screaming  watermen,  who  regarded  us  as  good  prey. 
A  young  Russian  officer,  with  whom  1  had  travelled  in  com- 
pany hither  from  Naples,  proposed  to  me  that  we  should  go  on 
shore,  and  see  the  curiosities  of  the  place  together.  He  pre- 
viously agreed  to  be  cashier  on  our  excursion,  and  we  set  off. 

Several  guides,  all  Moors,  flocked  around  us  at  the  landing- 
place  to  be  our  conductors.  We  chose  one  who  was  only  to 
take  us  to  the  Hotel  de  Mediterranea :  one  rag  scarcely  cov- 
ered the  other,  but  he  bore  them  as  proudly  as  a  prince  his 
purple  ;  a  pair  of  jet  black  eyes  shone  from  his  dark  face. 

A  draw-bridge  leads  to  the  gate  of  La  Valetta  ;  the  walls 
and  ditches  are  hewn  out  of  the  rocks,  and  the  ditches  them- 
selves afford  a  sight  of  the  richest  fruit-gardens.  Here  was  a 


MALTA. 

wilderness  of  orange-trees,  broad-leafed  palms,  pepper-trees, 
and  lotus. 

Within  the  gates  of  the  town  begins  a  street  with  fruit 
shops.  Fruits  of  every  kind  that  the  South  produces  meet  the 
eye :  a  sight  so  rich  and  variegated  is  never  seen  in  the 
North.  There  was  a  movement,  and  a  crowd  like  that  in 
Toledo  Street  at  Naples :  Maltese  women  completely  in 
black,  and  with  a  veil  held  so  tight  about  the  head,  that  one 
could  only  see  the  eyes  and  nose  ;  English  soldiers  in  their 
red  uniforms,  ragged  porters,  and  smart  sailors,  all  in  busy 
movement.  Handsome  carriages  on  two  wheels,  and  with 
only  one  horse,  passed  by  :  the  Moorish  coachmen  ran  by  the 
side. 

We  soon  came  into  larger  streets ;  all  the  houses  had  a 
palace-like  appearance,  and  a  peculiar  character,  on  account 
of  their  number  of  green-painted  jutting  windows.  All  the 
principal  streets  are  broad  and  airy,  partly  Macadamized,  and 
partly  paved  with  lava,  and  all  so  clean  —  I  might  almost  say 
they  looked  as  though  they  had  been  swept  and  cleansed  for 
a  festival. 

The  hotel  we  stopped  at  was  as  comfortable  and  splendid  as 
if  it  had  been  brought  hither  from  Queen  Victoria's  royal  city. 

I  was  sitting  with  a  French  newspaper  in  my  hand,  when  I 
heard  a  noise  without.  My  Russian  travelling  companion  had 
offered  our  Moor  but  a  few  halfpence  for  his  trouble,  and  the 
fellow  would  not  accept  so  little.  I  saw  how  small  the  sum 
was,  and  found  that  it  ought  to  be  greater :  the  Russian  said 
no,  and  opened  the  door.  The  Moor  laid  the  money  on  the 
step,  put  his  foot  on  it,  and  with  a  look  which,  on  the  stage, 
would  have  had  its  effect,  expressed  his  pride  and  anger.  I 
would  fain  have  given  the  man  more  money,  but  the  Russian 
\  laced  himself  between  us,  gave  the  servants  a  wink,  and  they 
turned  the  dissatisfied  man  out  of  doors.  And  so  that  inci- 
dent was  over. 

I,  however,  went  out  soon  after  into  the  street,  where  I 
expected  to  find  the  Moor,  and  there  he  stood,  surrounded  by 
a  flock  of  ragged  fellows.  The  money  which  the  servant  had 
laid  outside  the  door,  lay  there  still  in  the  same  place.  I 
tendered  him  about  three  times  more  than  had  been  offered 
him,  giving  him  to  understand  that  it  was  from  myself. 


144  A    POET'S  BAZAAR. 

His  eyes  rolled  in  his  head.  He  pointed  once  more  to  the 
few  coins  the  other  had  offered  him,  showed  me  his  rags,  and 
held  my  arm  back.  He  would  not  accept  anything  ;  shook 
his  clinched  fist  toward  the  house,  and  went  away  proud  as 
a  mortified  noble.  This  first  scene  in  Malta  put  me  out  of 
humor. 

We  next  went  to  the  cathedral,  which  is  consecrated  to  St. 
John.  It  is  just  as  peculiar  as  tasteful :  all  the  pillars  are 
decorated  with  arabesque  sculpture,  representing  scroll-work 
and  hovering  angels.  The  walls  themselves  have  a  richly 
gilded  foliage,  and  al  fresco  paintings  by  the  Calabrian  Mat- 
teo  j  a  very  magnificent  high  altar  is  there,  and  rich  monu- 
ments over  the  grand  masters.  The  highly  polished  floor  is 
inlaid  with  the  arms  of  knights.  The  organ  pealed,  the  cen- 
ser was  swung,  and  the  kneeling  Maltese  dames  cast  a  look 
from  the  heavenly  to  the  earthly  travellers.  They  perhaps 
had  a  foreboding  that  one  would  celebrate  them  in  song. 

The  Governor's  palace,  once  the  Grand  Master's,  lies  not 
far  from  hence.  It  is  a  building  which  is  just  as  dingy  with- 
out as  it  is  diversified  and  splendid  within.  One  can,  from 
the  paintings  here,  learn  and  comprehend  the  historical 
exploits  of  the  Maltese  knights  at  Rhodes,  though  we  may 
find  splendid  paintings,  and  rich  carpets,  and  hangings  in 
most  of  the  palaces  of  Europe  ;  yet  what  we  cannot  find  in 
them,  but  only  in  the  Governor's  palace  at  Malta,  is  the  arse- 
nal. All  the  pillars  here  are  slender,  high,  and  quite  hidden 
by  lances,  axes,  and  swords,  grouped  in  the  most  picturesque 
manner,  as  if  they  formed  a  part  of  the  pillar  itself,  —  as  if  they 
were  artificially  cut  out,  the  one  quite  different  from  the  other, 
—  but  all  in  the  same  proportion,  which  produces  a  harmony 
in  that  endless  range  of  pillars.  The  armor  which  the  knights 
of  Malta  wore  stands  in  ranks  along  the  wall,  and  the  walls 
themselves  are  covered  with  their  portraits,  shields,  and  arms. 
Above  the  rest  is  seen  the  Grand  Master's  portrait,  painted  by 
Caravaggio ;  a  radiant  sun  beams  above  it,  and  round  about 
are  rosettes  of  pistols,  arabesques  of  muskets,  sabres,  and 
arrows.  The  red  flowers  at  the  feast  of  Rosalie  could  not 
be  more  boldly  woven  into  festoons  than  these  arms  are. 

Ascending  most  convenient  and  easy  stairs,  which  a  half 


MALTA 

year's  old  child  might  crawl  up,  we  come  out  on  to  the  flat  roof 
of  the  building,  from  whence  we  have  a  prospect  of  the  city, 
the  island,  and  the  wide  sea.  It  lay  quite  calm,  of  a  shining 
blue,  and  in  the  distance  shone  snow-covered  Etna,  like  a  pyra- 
mid of  Carrara  marble.  The  burning  heat  of  the  sun  was 
softened  by  the  fresh  sea-breeze.  I  turned  toward  the  coast  of 
Africa ;  Malta  now  became  like  another  north  to  me ;  I  felt  a 
desire  like  the  bird  of  passage  in  harvest.  My  thoughts  flew 
to  the  land  of  lions  ;  they  followed  the  caravan  over  the 
sandy  deserts ;  they  flew  to  the  woods  of  the  blacks  ;  they 
rested  on  the  gold-producing  streams,  and  dreamt  with 
Egypt's  kings  in  the  cloud -wreathed  pyramids.  Shall  I  ever 
go  there  ? 

What  a  wide  curcuit !  The  whole  of  Malta  appears  like 
a  wall  in  the  sea ;  scarcely  anything  green  meets  the  eye, 
which,  for  the  most  part,  meets  the  yellow  earth  that  is  cut 
through  both  right  and  left  with  walled  inclosures  and  build- 
ing on  building.  We  see  in  a  moment  that  this  spot  is  the 
most  densely  populated  on  the  whole  earth. 

We  rolled  out  of  the  gate  in  one  of  the  light,  elegant, 
two-wheeled  carriages,  with  one  horse,  and  the  driver  running 
by  the  side.  Our  destined  excursion  was  to  Citta  Vecchia. 

Everything  outside  the  fortifications  presented  the  picture 
of  an  African  land.  We  did  not  see  a  tree,  nothing  green, 
except  the  low,  sprouting  corn  and  the  abundant,  large  Indian 
figs,  which  appeared  as  though  they  streamed  forth  from  the 
earth  and  the  old  walls.  It  was  in  the  heat  of  a  burning  sun. 
The  way  lay  along  the  aqueduct  made  by  the  knights  of 
Malta  ;  it  is  so  low  that  in  many  places  we  could  easily  spring 
over  it,  and  it  appeared  like  the  work  of  a  child  in  comparison 
with  the  aqueduct  near  Rome.  The  roads  are  excellent.  We 
passed  some  wind-mills,  the  peculiar  air}'  building  of  which 
Attracted  my  attention.  The  slightest  wind  must  be  able  to 
set  them  in  motion ;  they  have  from  twelve  to  twenty  wings, 
so  that  they  form  a  whole  rosette.  The  buildings  themselves 
are  entirely  of  stone,  neat  and  tasteful ;  a  spiral  stone  stair- 
case leads  up  to  the  machinery.  All  the  wind-mills  I  after- 
ward saw  on  the  Greek  islands  and  the  Dardanelles  had  quite 
10 


146  A  POET'S  BAZAAR. 

the  same  form ;  but  Malta  presented  the  first  of  the  kind  to 
my  observation. 

Outside  Citta  Vecchia  we  saw  over  the  whole  island ;  it 
lay  under  shadow,  with  a  yellow,  shining  surface  like  the  sun 
itself;  low  walls  running  crosswise  formed  inclosures  that 
extended  entirely  over  the  land,  giving  it  the  appearance  of  a 
map  on  which  the  minutest  boundary  is  indicated. 

Citta  Vecchia,  the  bishop's  see,  and  once  the  capital  of  the 
island,  is  not  an  inconsiderable  town.  The  church,  which  is 
dedicated  to  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul,  is  quite  in  the  same  style 
as  the  Italian  churches,  airy  and  diversified  with  colors :  but 
the  traveller  who  comes  from  Italy  is  so  surfeited  with  seeing 
churches,  that  even  a  church  like  this  produces  no  effect  We 
also  saw  the  catacombs  here,  which  are  just  like  those  under 
Rome ;  they  are  narrow,  inconvenient  passages,  of  which, 
having  seen  ten  yards,  one  has  a  perfect  conception  of  the 
appearance  of  the  next  ten.  In  the  vault  under  SL  Paul's 
Church  is  a  cavern  of  small  extent ;  in  the  centre  stands  a 
marble  statue  of  the  Apostle,  who  is  said  to  have  lived  here 
after  he  was  stranded  in  a  storm  on  the  coast  of  Malta.  But 
neither  the  cavern,  catacombs,  nor  church  made  any  sort  of 
impression  on  me.  I  was  glutted  with  the  sight  of  such  things. 
It  was  with  me  as  it  is  with  many  travellers  :  if  we  are  in  a 
place  where  there  is  one  thing  or  another  to  be  seen,  then  we 
make  it  a  duty  to  see  it,  because  it  is  mentioned  in  books,  and 
because  it  is  spoken  of;  but  it  very  often  happens  that  the 
thing  after  all  is  not  worth  the  trouble  we  take  to  see  it 
What  interested  me  in  this  city  was  the  manners  of  the  people ; 
the  half-veiled  peasant  girls,  whose  eyes  gleamed  like  lightning 
behind  the  veil ;  the  crowd  of  ragged  beggars,  and  the  many 
foreign  sailors  who  had  hired  horses  and  were  galloping  about 
in  their  glazed  hats,  on  which  the  ship's  name  was  placed  in 
gilt  letters,  shining  in  the  sun.  We  did  not  hear  a  single 
Italian  word ;  the  lower  classes  could  not  understand  us  a* 
all ;  they  spoke  a  sort  of  Arabic. 

On  the  way  home,  we  passed  a  splendid  villa,  whose  shady 
garden  displayed  itself  like  an  odorous  bouquet  in  the  midst 
of  this  burning  desert  ;  tall  pepper-trees  and  palms,  with  fan- 
shaped  leaves,  rose  high  above  the  wall.  A  number  of  armed 


MALTA. 

Turks  walked  about  on  the  flat,  oriental  roof.  We  were  told 
that  the  Prince  Emir  Beschir,  who  had  fled  hither,  lived  here, 
and  therefore  no  one  was  permitted  to  see  the  garden.  Numer- 
ous black  slaves  sauntered  about  in  the  yard,  and  a  fine  giraffe 
stood  by  the  wall  and  ate  the  green  leaves.  The  whole  was 
such  an  Asiatic  picture,  that,  even  without  help  of  the  flaming 
sun,  it  could  not  but  burn  itself  into  the  memory. 

Not  far  from  the  quarantine  house,  which  looks  large  and 
imposing,  is  the  English  cemetery.  It  is  almost  filled  with 
monuments,  all  cut  out  of  Malta  stone  ;  not  one,  however,  was 
of  any  striking  beauty.  None  of  the  inscriptions  impressed 
me  by  their  peculiarity  ;  no  great  or  well  known  name  did  I 
find  here  ;  but  there  were  beautiful  flowers,  large  and  scented  ; 
and  it  was  warmer  here  than  in  the  North  on  the  finest  sum- 
mer day,  notwithstanding  it  was  on  the  seventeenth  of  March. 

Toward  evening  we  returned  to  our  steam-vessel.  The 
view  over  the  harbor,  with  the  life  there,  was  a  scene  I  shall 
never  forget. 

When  the  sun  went  down,  the  evening  gun  was  heard,  and  all 
the  flags  on  our  vessel  were  lowered  ;  it  was  but  a  few  minutes, 
and  night  lay  over  us  without  twilight ;  but  night  as  it  comes 
on  in  the  South,  clear  and  transparent  with  glittering  stars,  — 
stars  which  say,  "  We  are  suns  ;  can  you  doubt  it  ? " 

The  crowd  in  the  streets  disappeared ;  a  soft  music  was 
heard,  but  it  soon  broke  forth  in  powerful  tones  from  the  two 
war-ships  that  lay  nearest  to  us.  "  God  save  the  Queen  " 
was  played  and  sung,  as  I  have  never  before  heard  it ;  but  the 
situation  in  which  we  were  contributed  much  to  the  effect. 

Lively  music  now  sounded.  There  was  a  ball  on  board  one 
of  the  ships.  The  stars  themselves  seemed  to  dance  on  the 
water's  surface.  The  boats  rocked ;  it  was  late  in  the  evening 
before  I  could  tear  myself  away  from  this  scene. 

I  was  awakened  early  in  the  morning  by  the  cleansing  of  the 
deck,  after  they  had  taken  coal  on  board.  When  I  came  upon 
deck,  it  shone  in  all  its  freshness,  and  they  made  ready  for 
sailing. 

There  was  a  shouting  and  screaming  round  about  us  ;  the 
floating  shops  with  their  traders  surrounded  us.  Naked  boys 
begged ;  passengers  came  on  board  ;  our  Persian  sat  on  the 


148  A   POETS  BAZAAR. 

coal  sacks  near  the  chimney ;  a  Bedouin  wrapped  up  in  his 
white  burnoose,  and  with  pistols  and  knife  in  his  belt,  lay  with 
his  back  against  him ;  a  few  Maltese  women,  in  their  black 
veils,  had  grouped  themselves  near  the  machinery,  and  Greeks 
in  different  dresses  and  with  the  red  fez  on  their  heads, 
leaned  against  the  gunwale. 

Two  sailors  with  halberds  stood  guard  by  the  steps  into  the 
gangway,  and  kept  order  whilst  packages,  chests,  and  boxes 
were  piled  up.  The  boatswain's  whistle  sounded  ;  the  steam 
whizzed  and  hissed  out  of  the  tube  and  about  the  paddle 
wheels ;  the  cannon  sounded,  the  flags  waved,  and  we  glided 
out  of  Malta's  road  at  a  rapid  rate,  into  the  open  Mediter- 
ranean, which  lay  as  blue  and  still  as  a  velvet  carpet  spread 
over  the  earth ;  the  sea  was  like  bluish  ether  —  a  fixed  starless 
sky  beneath  us  ;  it  extended  in  the  transparent  air,  further 
than  I  have  ever  seen  it ;  neither  dark  nor  light  stripe  bounded 
the  horizon ;  there  was  a  clearness,  an  infinity  which  cannot 
be  painted,  nor  described,  except  in  the  eternal  depth  of 
thought 


GREECE. 
I. 

A   FEW   DAYS   IN  THE   MEDITERRANEAN. 

THE  boundless  sea  lay  in  a  dead  calm  ;  we  felt  not  the 
least  motion  in  the  vessel ;  we  could  run  about  where 
we  liked,  up  and  down,  just  as  if  we  were  on  terra  firma ;  it 
was  only  by  looking  at  the  water  in  the  wake  of  the  vessel 
that  we  saw  the  speed  of  the  ship  which  left  Malta's  yellow 
rocks  further  and  further  behind. 

We  had  seven  young  Spanish  monks  on  board.  They  knew 
a  little  Italian,  were  all  missionaries,  and  were  now  going 
to  India.  The  youngest  of  them  was  very  handsome,  but 
pale  and  melancholy.  He  told  me  that  his  parents  still  lived, 
and  that  he  had  not  seen  his  mother,  who  was  so  dear  to  him, 
since  his  sixteenth  year.  He  sighed  and  exclaimed :  "  Now 
I  shall  not  see  her  before  we  meet  in  heaven  ! " 

It  was  with  a  heavy,  bleeding  heart  that  he  left  Europe ; 
but  he  acknowledged  that  he  must  do  so ;  it  was  his  calling, 
and  he  was  in  God's  service.  He  and  the  other  brothers  be- 
longed to  the  order  of  the  Theresian  monks,  founded  by  St. 
Theresa. 

Of  those  on  board,  I,  for  the  most  part,  was  the  one  who 
seemed  to  be  furthest  from  home  —  I  came  from  the  North. 

"  From  Denmark  !  "  repeated  our  Roman  ecclesiastic,  who 
was  going  to  Jerusalem.  "  Denmark !  You  are  then  an 
American  ? " 

I  explained  to  him  that  Denmark  lay  very  far  from  Amer- 
ica ;  but  he  shook  his  head  like  the  lady  in  "  The  Danes  in 
Paris,"  and  said  like  her,  "  Not  so  very  far !  not  so  very  far  !  " 

We  had  an  ambassador  from  the  Pope  on  board,  who  was 
going  to  Lebanon  ;  he  was  the  only  one  of  the  Italians  wha 
knew  a  little  about  Denmark.  He  knew  Fru  von  Gothen, 


I5O  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

and  had  been  at  her  soire'es  in  Rome ;  he  knew  that  there 
was  a  Thorwaldsen,  and  that  there  had  been  a  Tycho  Brahe. 
I  have  since  made  this  discovery,  that  Tycho  Brahe  is  the  one 
amongst  the  Danes  through  whom  Denmark  is  most  known 
abroad  ;  Tycho  is  our  most  famed  countryman  —  and  him  we 
exiled  !  Denmark  is  great  as  a  mother,  but  she  is  often  no 
good  mother  toward  her  best  children. 

Now,  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  we  could  still  see  Malta ; 
but  of  Sicily  we  only  saw  snow-clad  Etna ;  yet  large  and  dis- 
tinct, it  shone  as  if  it  were  a  pyramid  of  white  sunlit  marble. 
There  was  not  the  least  swell  in  the  sea  ;  it  was  like  gliding 
through  the  air.  An  enormous  dolphin,  larger  than  any  horse, 
rolled  several  times  quite  close  to  the  ship  ;  the  sun  shone  on 
its  wet,  glistening  back.  Melodies  from  "  La  Dame  Blanche  " 
sounded  from  the  piano  in  the  cabin  to  us  on  deck,  and  the 
merry  sailor  boys  hung  in  the  shrouds  and  sang :  "  Quel  plai- 
sir  d'etre  matelot !  " 

The  whistle  sounded  ;  the  sailors  went  through  their  ma- 
neuvers. The  dinner-bell  rang.  While  we  were  drinking  our 
coffee,  the  sun  went  down  large  and  red,  and  the  sea  shone 
like  fire. 

The  sun  was  set ;  the  stars  broke  forth  with  a  brilliancy 
such  as  I  cannot  express !  What  a  firmament !  what  radiance  ! 
Venus  shone  as  if  she  were  the  moon  herself  ;  her  rays  cast  a 
long  stripe  over  the  sea,  which  moved  in  a  gentle  swell,  as  if 
the  sea  breathed  softly.  Low  in  the  horizon,  over  the  coast 
of  Africa,  stood  a  star  shining  red  like  fire  !  Under  this  star 
the  Bedouin  was  at  this  moment  speeding  on  his  wild  horse ; 
under  this  star  the  caravan  was  passing  through  the  glowing 
sand. 

"  How  delightful  to  sit  under  the  tent  with  Africa's  daugh- 
ter !  "  The  stars  shot  flames  through  the  blood  !  I  sat  by  the 
gunwale,  and  looked  over  the  sea's  surface !  Phosphoric 
gleams  shot  through  the  water!  It  was  as  if  beings  walked 
with  torches  at  the  bottom  of  the  ocean,  and  these  suddenly 
shone  through  the  water ;  they  appeared  and  vanished,  as  if 
these  flames  were  the  variably  visible  respiration  of  the  ocean 

I  was  in  my  hammock  by  nine  o'clock,  and  at  once  fell 
asleep,  whilst  the  ship  continued  its  unchanging  course  onward 


A  FEW  DAYS  IN  THE  MEDITERRANEAN. 


'5* 


When  I  again  stood  upon  deck  early  in  the  morning,  they  were 
cleaning  it ;  all  hands  were  in  motion,  and  the  deck  soon  shone 
white  and  clean,  so  that  it  was  a  pleasure  to  look  at  it.  Where 
the  anchors  and  cables  lay,  the  sailors  had  their  washing-place, 
and  it  was  quite  original.  They  washed  their  trousers  there, 
and  spread  them  out  on  deck ;  then  poured  sea-water  over 
them,  and  swept  or  rather  scrubbed  them  with  a  common 
birch-broom  which  was  somewhat  worn,  and  with  a  piece  of 
soap  between  the  sticks. 

Two  brisk  young  cabin-boys,  quite  little  fellows,  but  as 
lively  as  squirrels,  and  full  of  mischief,  killed  poultry,  and 
before  each  slaughter  they  made  a  humorous  speech  to  the 
hens,  which  always  ended  with  a  "Voila!"  and  then  the 
knife  was  drawn  across  their  throat. 

We  perceived  some  movement  in  the  sea  :  but  as  the  sun 
rose  higher,  it  became  calm  as  the  day  before  ;  no  river-sailing 
could  be  likened  to  this  in  stillness  ;  here  and  there,  but  at  a 
distance,  some  dark-blue  spots  on  the  extended  sunlit  surface 
of  the  sea  showed  that  a  breeze  curled  the  watery  mirror. 
Malta  was  no  longer  visible  ;  but  Etna  stood  clear  and  distinct 
in  the  horizon.  Toward  the  northeast  we  discerned  the 
white  sails  of  a  ship  ;  it  was  the  first  vessel  we  had  seen  since 
we  left  Malta. 

The  sailors  had  their  breakfast  in  the  stern  of  the  vessel, 
and  each  got  his  ration  of  wine,  bread,  and  onions.  They  were 
all  as  merry  as  could  be  ;  they  had  their  man  of  wit,  and  one 
on  whom  they  played  their  jests. 

The  Persian  in  the  green  caftan,  and  with  a  white  shawl 
turban,  sat  ever  alone  and  played  with  his  ear-rings,  or  his 
sabre.  No  one  spoke  to  him,  and  he  spoke  to  no  one  :  but 
now  and  then  a  smile  played  around  his  mouth,  as  if  pleasant 
remembrances  passed  through  his  mind  ;  or  perhaps  he 
thought  of  his  arrival  at  home,  and  of  all  he  had  to  tell  of 
land  and  sea.  I  passed  him,  and  he  seized  my  arm,  said  some 
words  in  Persian,  which  I  did  not  understand  ;  but  he  laughed, 
nodded,  and  pointed  to  the  side  of  the  deck.  He  returned  my 
friendly  morning  greeting,  by  drawing  my  attention  to  a  little 
incident  on  our  passage  over  the  sea.  A  little  bird  had 
alighted  on  the  shrouds,  quite  tired,  and  had  languidly  flut- 


152  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

tered  down  to  the  deck.  It  was  so  exhausted  that  it  could  no 
longer  lift  its  wings.  It  had  soon  a  number  of  spectators  ; 
and  I  was  quite  angry  with  the  priest  from  Rome,  because  he 
would  have  it  roasted  directly,  for,  he  said,  "  it  must  taste 
so  good." 

"  Our  little  winged  pilgrim  shall  not  be  eaten !  "  said  I. 
One  of  the  lieutenants  took  it  under  his  protection,  put  it  up 
on  the  sail  that  was  spread  like  a  tent  over  the  quarter-deck, 
gave  it  a  plate  with  bread  crumbs  and  water,  and  the  bird  was 
our  guest  for  the  whole  day  and  night  too.  Next  day  it  Hew 
away  from  the  ship,  and  twittered  in  its  flight,  as  if  it  would 
say,  "  Thank  you  for  good  treatment." 

It  was  a  great  event  for  us  all,  yet  we  soon  sought  our  sev- 
eral occupations  again  :  one  at  the  piano,  another  over  a  book  ; 
some  played  cards,  and  others  promenaded  up  and  down. 
The  Bedouin  sat  on  the  coal  sacks,  silent  as  a  ghost ;  the  eyes 
sparkled  in  that  brown  face,  under  the  white  burnoose,  and  his 
naked,  dark-brown  legs  stuck  out ;  the  Persian  played  with  his 
large  sabre,  clapped  his  pistols,  or  turned  the  silver  rings  in 
his  dark  brown  ears  ;  the  Captain  copied  a  picture  by  Marstand 
out  of  my  album  :  "  Only  a  Fiddler."  It  now  hangs  in  the  Cap- 
tain's cabin,  and  "  the  fiddler  "  sails  yearly  between  Marseilles 
and  Constantinople,  in  the  proud  ship  Lconidas.  I  myself 
read  German  with  one  of  the  French  officers ;  he  translated 
Schiller's  "  Die  Theilung  der  Erde." 

The  time  went  on  delightfully ;  joy  and  mirth  reigned  at  the 
dinner-table.  The  sunsets  were  extremely  beautiful.  The 
stars  streamed  forth  so  clear  and  bright !  It  was  not  possi- 
ble to  perceive  the  course  of  the  ship  but  by  fixing  the  eye  on 
the  shrouds  and  the  stars  ;  it  was  as  if  the  starry  heavens  turned 
round,  and  the  ship  stood  still. 

There  was  something  so  elevated,  so  poetic  on  these  even- 
ings on  the  quiet,  boundless  sea,  that  I  want  expression  for  it 
This  quiet  around  reflected  itself  in  my  soul.  My  northern 
home  has  granted  me  but  a  few  minutes  in  my  life  so  delight- 
ful as  I  enjoyed  here  for  whole  hours. 

We  still  discerned  Etna,  like  a  white  pyramid,  in  the  north- 
west ;  all  else  around  was  the  unlimited  sea  ;  but  at  midnight 
a  white  spot  showed  itself  in  the  northeast ;  it  could  not  be  a 
ship,  it  was  too  broad  for  that,  but  possibly  a  cloud.  I  thought 


A  FEW  DAYS  IN  THE  MEDITERRANEAN.        153 

it  was  the  Greek  coast,  and  asked  the  Captain  about  it  He 
shook  his  head  and  said  that  we  should  first  see  Greece  the  next 
day,  but  that  it  certainly  lay  in  the  direction  where  I  thought  I 
had  seen  land.  Neither  he  nor  any  of  the  passengers  could 
see  anything. 

After  dinner,  shortly  before  sunset,  when  I  sought  for  the 
same  point  as  before,  it  shone  just  as  clear  as  Etna  now  !  No, 
it  could  not  be  a  cloud,  it  had  not  changed  its  form,  it  yet  lay 
in  the  same  direction  as  it  did  three  hours  ago. 

The  Captain  took  his  best  telescope  and  cried,  "  Land ! " 
It  was  the  coast  of  Greece  !  it  was  a  mountain's  top  near  Nav- 
arino,  covered  with  snow,  and  it  shone  in  the  clear  air.  I  had 
discovered  Greece  the  first  of  them  all. 

"  I  have  never  before  heard,"  said  the  Captain,  "  that  any 
one  could  see  both  Etna  and  the  coast  of  Greece  at  the  same 
time,  with  the  naked  eye  !  It  is  remarkable !  " 

When  I  afterward  related  this  at  Athens,  a  learned  man 
there  said  that,  in  a  critique  upon  an  English  work,  which  he 
had  lately  read,  the  same  remark  was  made,  but  the  critic  very 
strongly  doubted  it. 

Yet  it  is  the  case :  I  have  seen  it  myself.  Snow  on  Etna 
and  snow  on  the  Greek  mountains  make  it  possible,  in  clear 
sunshine,  to  see  land  both  in  the  east  and  west. 

Greece!  I  saw  then  before  me  this  great  father-land  of 
spirits !  Under  yonder  mountain  lay  the  beautiful  Arcadian 
vales !  A  thousand  thoughts,  one  different  from  the  other,  flew 
toward  that  shining  mountain,  like  a  flock  of  migratory  birds  ! 
but  the  sun  sank,  and  my  thoughts  retired  from  the  reminis- 
cences of  earth  to  the  majesty  of  heaven. 

Next  morning  I  was  up  before  the  sun ;  it  was  on  the 
twentieth  of  March.  The  sun  rose  so  blood-red,  and  so  singu- 
larly oval  as  I  have  never  before  seen  it ;  the  day  streamed 
forth  over  the  calm,  silent  sea,  and  before  us,  to  the  right,  lay, 
clear  and  distinct,  but  far,  far  distant,  the  coast  of  Morea.  It 
was  ancient  Lacedemon  we  saw. 

A  steep  rock  descended  perpendicularly  into  the  sea,  and 
on  land  rose  snow-covered,  picturesque  mountains!  O,  how 
my  heart  exulted ! 

I  see  shininj  air  !  I  see  waves  like  fleece  ! 

And  the  mountain  coast  yonder  's  the  land  of  Greece. 


154  *   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

II. 

PANORAMA   OF   SOUTH    MOREA  AND   THE  CYCLADES. 

WE  approached  Morea:  the  mulberry  land,  as  its  name 
imports,  and  which  it  has  received  from  its  appearance,  which 
is  like  that  of  a  mulberry  leaf.  There  streams  forth  Eurotas, 
there  lies  ancient  Sparta,  and  there  is  Agamemnon's  grave ! 
These  rocky  contours,  with  the  same  sunlight  and  long  shad- 
ows as  we  now  see  them,  were  seen  by  the  Phoenicians  and 
Pelasgians ;  the  billows  rolled  here  at  that  time,  the  same  as 
now.  The  whole  scene  is  unchanged.  We  sailed  close  in, 
under  Cape  Matapan's  rocky  wall ;  the  whole  coast  seemed 
naked,  and  without  vegetation  ;  heavy  billows  broke  against 
the  rocks,  where  there  was  no  mountain  goat  climbing,  no 
shepherd  or  hunter  to  be  seen.  Yet  even  in  this  naked  wil- 
derness, each  spot  had  an  interest  far  greater  than  that  we 
often  feel  for  the  richest  landscape,  for  it  was  Greece  we  saw. 
The  warm  violet  that  we  preserve  in  our  psalm  book,  is  of 
greater  worth  to  us  than  the  fresh,  scented  rose  ;  remem- 
brance gives  colors  and  odor,  such  as  we  do  not  find  in  the 
living  flower. 

We  passed  the  extreme  point  of  the  Mainot's  land  —  the 
Mainots,1  that  Spartan  race,  which  as  yet  has  never  been 
subdued,  a  people,  brave  and  courageous,  rude  and  wild,  but 
hospitable  as  in  the  times  of  Lycurgus. 

After  some  hours'  sailing,  there  lay  on  our  right  side  the 
island  of  Cerigo. 

"  Cythera  ! "  cried  our  lively  Frenchman  ;  "  it  was  from 
these  cliffs  that  Venus  flew  in  her  car,  drawn  by  doves  !  I  have 
a  suspicion  that  some  of  her  race  are  here  still !  Here  are 
the  genuine  Grecian  marble,  the  real  Grecian  roses  —  and 
both  pass  into  flesh  and  blood  !  Let  us  cast  anchor,  and  pay 
homage  to  the  goddess,  who  has  yet  an  altar  in  every  one's 
breast ! " 

Our  steamer  flew  past.  The  sea  was  rough,  and  it  blew 
from  the  mountain.  Morea  stretched  its  naked  Cape  Malio 

1  The  name  Mai  not  is  derived  from  the  Greek  word  Mono,  rage,  and 
•ignifics  the  wiMness  with  which  they  attack  their  enemies. 


PANORAMA    OF  SOUTH  MOREA. 


155 


out  into  the  foaming  breakers.  How  wild  and  solitary  was 
this  scene !  and  yet  here  was  a  human  dwelling,  a  hermit's 
cave,  quite  shut  out  from  the  world,  surrounded  by  screaming 
sea-fowl,  and  close  by  the  roaring  sea.  It  was  impossible,  even 
with  the  assistance  of  a  glass,  to  discover  a  pathway  among 
the  rocks  that  could  conduct  persons  down  to  the  hermit. 

The  dwelling  was  low  and  small ;  it  had  a  hole  for  a  door 
and  window ;  close  by  it  was  seen  a  man  moving  about ;  it 
was  the  hermit  on  Cape  Malio,  the  first  human  being  we  saw 
on  the  coast  of  Greece  !  Who  was  he  ?  What  had  driven 
him  out  into  this  wild  solitude  ?  No  one  answered  our  ques- 
tion. He  and  his  cabin  had  been  seen  there  for  many  years. 
Ships  with  their  little  world  of  beings  glide  past ;  he  looks  on 
them  as  on  visions ;  he  regards  them  as  he  regards  the 
white  sea  gulls.  He  reads  his  morning  and  evening  prayer, 
when  the  sea  is  calm,  and  when  it  sings  its  mighty  chorus  in 
the  storm. 

We  receded  farther  and  farther  from  him.  Toward  north- 
west the  Belle  Poule,  a  gigantic  helmet-shaped  rock,  lifts  its 
head  from  the  foaming  waves :  the  evening  sun  colored  it 
with  its  red  rays.  I  regarded  it  as  the  advanced  guard  of  the 
Cyclades  ;  but  it  was  not  before  it  was  late  in  the  evening 
that  we  approached  them. 

By  the  dawn  of  day  I  was  on  deck  again.  Some  sailing 
vessels  cruised  close  past  us,  looking  like  gigantic  sea-birds 
that  would  strike  our  shrouds  with  their  white  wings. 

Naked  stone  masses  towered  aloft  from  the  water :  it  was 
the  island  of  Melos  which  is  excavated  by  fire  and  water :  it 
was  Sipphanto,  Serpho  and  Thermia :  we  sailed  as  in  a  canal 
between  the  last  two.  Under  the  stones  are  magnet  mines, 
and  above  them  scented  roses ;  but  the  traveller  sees  none  of 
these :  the  coast  is  bare  and  wild. 

The  sun  rose  behind  the  island  of  Mycone's  mountains  ; 
it  shone  on  Paros  and  Anti-Paros  ;  but  no  marble  rock  shone 
there.  The  gray  cliff  lay  dead  and  heavy  in  the  water  ;  there 
was  nothing  to  give  us  sign  of  its  grand  stalactite  grotto  with 
its  marvels.  We  saw  the  rocks  of  Naxos  where  Ariadne  wept ; 
where  the  Menades,  with  loose,  hanging  hair  over  their  beauti- 
ful shoulders,  danced  in  the  clear  starlit  night,  and  sang  their 


156  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

hymns  to  Bacchus ;  but  high  rocks  concealed  the  fruitful  vine- 
covered  dales  from  our  sight ;  Dia,  Zeus's  holy  mountain, 
pointed  sternly  toward  that  heaven  from  whence  mankind  has 
chased  the  old  gods. 

In  our  school-days  we  called  the  classics  "  dry ; "  the 
classic  islands  appear  still  more  dry !  yet  it  is  with  the  most 
of  them  as  it  is  with  those  authors :  we  have  only  to  penetrate 
them,  and  then  we  see  the  vine-rows  sling  their  juicy  branches 
over  the  sunlit  vale ;  we  then  see  the  monuments  of  olden 
time  like  great  imaginings  in  a  poet's  work  ;  beautiful  women 
greet  us,  —  and  the  greeting  of  beauty  is  like  the  melodies  of 
our  dearest  songs. 

The  vessel  steered  toward  a  very  small  island,  where  there 
stood  a  slender,  white  light-house ;  and  as  we  passed  it,  the 
barbor  of  Syra  lay  before  us.  Bent  like  a  horse-shoe  around 
the  bay,  there  lay  a  town  with  shining  white  houses,  as  if  it 
were  a  camp  of  tents  on  the  gray  mountain  side.  It  was  a 
little  life-like  Naples  ;  the  bishop's  palace  here,  on  the  top  of 
the  mountain,  reminded  us  of  St.  Elmo.  I  had  pictured  to 
myself  the  Greek  towns  as  but  ruins  and  clay  huts  ;  but  the 
town  of  Syra  was  quite  inviting  and  picturesque. 

A  whole  flock  of  Greek  boats  rowed  out  to  us,  and  lay  in 
shelter  under  the  side  of  our  vessel,  although  they  every  mo- 
ment struck  against  each  other,  as  the  sea  ran  strong.  I  let 
my  luggage  glide  down  into  one  of  the  nearest,  and  then 
sprang  into  it  myself;  a  farewell  sounded  to  me  from  the 
friends  I  had  made  on  board  the  steamer,  and  whom  I  should 
probably  never  see  again  in  this  world  —  and  I  became  sor- 
rowful. 

The  rowers  set  the  oars  in  motion  toward  land,  but  we  were 
far  out.  The  waves  rocked  our  boat  as  if  it  had  been  an 
orange  peel ;  it  had  almost  upset  in  the  heavy  swell ;  the  waves 
dashed  over  us ;  at  length  we  came  into  the  harbor  where  ship 
lay  beside  ship,  and  one  boat  close  by  the  other. 

The  whole  quay  was  filled  with  Greeks,  in  tight  jackets, 
white  trousers,  and  the  red  cap  on  their  heads ;  there  was  such 
a  shouting  and  screaming!  An  old  fellow  stretched  his  hand 
out  to  me  —  and  I  stood  on  Greek  land.  Gratitude  toward 
God,  joy  at  being  here,  and  yet  a  certain  feeling  of  desolation, 
took  possession  of  me  at  this  moment. 


PANORAMA    OF  SOUTH  MOREA.  157 

At  the  office  of  the  French  steamer  I  learned  that  it  would 
be  seven  days  before  the  Austrian  steam-packet  would  arrive  ; 
the  Greek  line  was  broken  up,  but  there  was  one  conveyance 
for  me  the  same  day  if  I  could  be  contented  to  commence  my 
arrival  at  Piraeus  with  a  few  days'  quarantine.  The  French 
war-steamer  Lycurgus,  which  had  come  from  Alexandria,  where 
the  plague  just  then  raged,  had  lain  for  several  weeks  at  Syra 
with  the  quarantine  flag  on  board  ;  it  was  to  sail  that  even- 
ing for  Piraeus  and  end  its  quarantine  there  in  three  days. 
I  took  a  boat  immediately,  and  set  out  on  the  troubled 
sea  toward  the  Lycurgus,  where  the  green  flag  waved.  My 
luggage  was  thrown  into  an  empty  boat  which  hung  by  a  rope 
near  the  gangway ;  the  sailors  hauled  it  up  ;  my  things  were 
on  board,  and  I  could  now  begin  my  wanderings  about  the 
town. 

Close  to  the  quay  lay  an  open  wooden  shop  with  a  clay  floor* 
and  rough  beams  supporting  a  ceiling,  which,  however,  only 
extended  over  half  the  room ;  the  other  half  had  only  the  roof 
for  covering.  This  was  a  cafe',  in  which  Greeks  and  strangers 
«at  round  about  little  wooden  tables.  The  coffee-pot  stood 
over  the  fire ;  a  fine  Greek  boy  stirred  it  with  a  stick ;  he 
turned  it  with  both  hands,  so  that  the  coffee  might  be  of  an 
equal  thickness,  and  poured  it  out  boiling  into  the  cups.1 
Two  Russian  sailors  danced  to  a  horrible  violin,  played  by  an 
old  Greek. 

I  went  further  into  the  town  ;  the  streets  were  extremely 
small,  and  in  the  principal  one  which  winds  round  the  bay,  was 
shop  after  shop,  each  like  an  inverted  chest.  Here  they  sold 
clothes,  fez,  morocco  shoes,  fruits,  and  edibles  of  all  kinds. 

Before  the  hotel  "  della  Grecia  "  sat  Greeks  and  others  in 
oriental  costume,  smoking  long  pipes  in  the  parti-colored 
wooden  balconies.  I  only  met  one  Frank,  and  he  was  a 
Russian,  who  at  once  asked  me  what  I  was  doing  in  that 
cursed  land  amongst  these  men. 

1  The  coffee  in  Greece  and  the  East  is  excellent,  nay,  so  superb  that 
the  traveller  who  comes  from  that  land,  will  not  soon  accommodate  his 
taste  to  that  which  is  prepared  in  the  usual  European  method.  They 
drink  the  sediment  with  it,  but  the  coffee  is  quite  smooth,  and  there  are  no 
coffee-grounds  ;  it  is  ground  to  a  powder,  quite  like  chocolate. 


158  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

" They  are  all  scoundrels,"  said  he ;  "as  well  as  those  writ- 
ers and  Lamartines  who  describe  these  countries  so  that  one 
feels  a  desire  to  visit  them.  I  wish  I  had  one  of  the  fellows 
here  ;  I  would  break  his  bones !  I  come  from  Constantino- 
ple ;  I  have  made  the  tour  by  land  along  the  coast,  and  have 
been  plundered  by  the  Albanians  ;  they  have  taken  eveiy 
farthing  from  me  j  they  have  killed  my  servants,  and  I  lie  here 
money-bound,  waiting  for  a  letter  of  credit !  It  is  a  vile,  ab- 
ject land,  and  bad  people!  What  the  deuce  did  you  come 
here  into  the  East  for  ?  " 

This  was  very  pleasant !  However,  I  hied  me  away  to  the 
nearest  barber,  and  sat  up  on  the  wooden  bench  against  the 
wall,  amongst  the  other  Greeks.  A  leather  strap  which  was 
made  fast  to  the  wall  was  fastened  round  my  neck  ;  the  sharp 
razor  flew  as  light  as  a  feather  over  the  whole  face,  which  was 
afterwards  sprinkled  with  eau  de  Cologne. 

The  barber  asked  me  if  I  was  an  Englishman ;  and  when 
I  said  I  was  Danish,  he  pressed  me  to  his  heart  and  shouted : 
"  Bravi  Americanil"  I  assured  him  that  I  was  not  an  Amer- 
ican, but  a  Dane ;  he  nodded  quite  pleased,  laid  his  hand  on 
his  heart,  and  said,  as  far  as  I  could  make  out,  how  dear  the 
Americans  were  to  all  Greeks,  from  the  time  of  their  struggle 
for  liberty,  when  the  American  ships  brought  them  provisions. 

I  strolled  through  the  streets,  which  were  thronged  with 
men,  but  not  a  single  Greek  woman  did  I  see.  The  windows 
in  all  the  houses  were  covered  with  long  curtains,  or  Venetian 
blinds  inside.  I  soon  reached  the  more  empty  streets,  which 
lay  higher  up  on  the  side  of  the  mountain.  Before  most  of 
the  houses  here  was  a  sort  of  entrance-hall  with  a  large  arbor 
of  a  single  vine.  Flower-pots  stood  on  the  walls,  and  on  the 
flat  roofs  of  the  houses ;  the  street  before  some  of  the  build- 
ings was  paved  in  mosaic  ;  the  stones  formed  stars  and  scroll 
work.  I  went  into  the  principal  church,  which,  in  comparison 
with  those  I  had  seen  in  Italy,  was  small  and  insignificant 
but,  compared  with  the  churches  in  Greece,  was  of  a  respecta- 
ble size. 

The  walls  around  the  altar-stone  were  bright  with  gilding 
and  holy  pictures.  A  few  little  boys  were  playing  there.  My 
Wind  and  thoughts  were  disposed  to  devotion.  God  was  the 


PANORAMA    OF  SOUTH  MOREA.  159 

only  One  I  knew  here.  I  could  have  bent  my  knee,  and  sub- 
mitted myself  to  his  holy  will,  and  in  my  thoughts  I  did  so. 

In  the  highest  part  of  the  town,  the  buildings  were  not 
completed.  The  street  appeared  to  go  through  a  stone  quarry : 
there  lay  blocks  and  fragments  of  rocks,  where  the  houses 
were  being  built ;  but  the  view  over  the  town  and  harbor  to 
the  little  island  with  its  white  and  slender  light-house  was 
splendid.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  bay  lay  the  quarantine 
station.  I  saw  the  islands  of  Tenos,  Delos,  Naxos,  and  the  top 
of  Andros.  As  I  fixed  my  eye  on  these  islands,  a  steam -ves- 
sel passed  by.  I  knew  the  flag  !  it  was  the  Leonidas  ;  it  dis- 
appeared under  the  coast  of  Delos.  "  Farewell !  farewell ! " 
shouted  I ;  but  no  one  heard  me  ;  the  ship  was  gone  —  I  saw 
but  the  smoke,  which  still  lay  like  a  cloud  between  the  islands. 

Toward  evening  1  went  on  board  the  Lycurgus.  The  sea 
was  running  high;  two  merry  Greeks  rowed,  and  at  every 
stroke  of  the  oar  the  waves  lifted  the  boat  so  that  we  were 
nearly  upset,  yet  they  shouted  joyfully.  Strange  faces  met 
me  on  board.  We  weighed  anchor  at  sunset,  and  the  vessel 
steered  northeast  of  Syra,  where  we  came  into  low  water. 
It  was  a  beautiful  starlight  night.  I  had  not,  as  yet,  made  ac- 
quaintance with  any  one.  I  sat  on  the  gun-carriage,  and 
looked  at  the  sky  above  and  around  ;  a  foreigner  in  oriental 
costume  sat  with  his  back  toward  me.  I  looked  at  him  and 
he  looked  again  at  me,  nodded  in  a  friendly  manner,  and 
put  his  hand  up  to  his  turban.  It  was  the  Persian  with  whom 
I  had  sailed  from  Naples !  We  two  were  the  only  old  compan- 
ions from  the  Leonidas ;  he  appeared  to  be  glad  at  our  meet- 
ing, as  I  also  was.  He  was  going  to  Athens,  and  from  thence 
home.  He  offered  me  some  fruit,  and  I  offered  him  some 
again  ;  but  neither  of  us  could  understand  each  other  by 
words.  I  pointed  toward  the  beautiful  starry  firmament,  and 
he  touched  his  turban.  I  thought  that  I  must  say  some- 
thing, if  only  a  quotation  from  a  language  that  was  similar  to 
his  own;  and  what  more  of  this  did  I  know  than  the  first 
line  of  Genesis  in  Hebrew :  one  helps  one's  self  as  well  as 
one  can.  I  pointed  to  the  stars  and  said.  — 

"  Bereschit  Barah  Elohim  Et  Haschamaim  Veet  Ha-aretz ! " 

And  he  smiled,  nodded,  and  in  return  gave  me  all  he  knew 
.•>f  a  language  that  he  thought  was  mine  :  — 


I6O  A    POET'S  BAZAAR. 

"  Yes,  sir !  verily  !  verily  !  " 

This  was  the  whole  of  our  conversation.      Neither  of  us 
knew  more  ;  but  we  were  good  friends. 


III. 

THE  BAY  OF  PIRAEUS. 

EARLY  in  the  morning  I  heard  the  men  casting  anchoi.  I 
went  upon  deck  ;  we  lay  in  the  Bay  of  Piraeus.  It  looked  like 
a  small  lake.  The  island  of  ^Egina,  over  whose  mountains 
the  still  higher  mountains  of  Morea  rose  boldly  one  above  the 
other,  looked  somewhat  insignificant.  Two  floating  casks 
are  used  for  landmarks,  and  in  the  evening  each  bears  a  lantern. 
I  counted  about  one  hundred  houses  in  Piraeus ;  behind  these, 
and  behind  a  stony  yellow  soil  and  gray-green  olive-trees, 
rose  Lycabettus  and  the  Acropolis,  which  is  in  a  lower  situa- 
tion ;  the  mountains  Hymettus  and  Pentelicon  closed  the  land- 
scape, which  has  a  hard,  stony  appearance,  —  "  that  stony  At- 
tica," said  the  old  writers. 

To  the  left  lay  a  little  peninsula,  with  some  bushes,  a  wind- 
mill, and  the  new  quarantine  building  ;  to  the  right  extended  a 
bare,  stony  plain  to  the  heights  of  Parnassus,  whose  partly 
undulating,  and  partly  broken  lines  had  a  very  picturesque 
effect 

In  this  bay,  where  Themistocles  had  sixty  galleys  launched 
annually,  there  now  lay  but  a  few  small  Greek  vessels  and  a 
boat ;  but  there  was  a  number  of  large  English,  French,  and 
Austrian  vessels,  as  well  as  two  steam-vessels,  besides  ours. 
Smart  Greeks  rowed  past  us ;  and  during  the  day  came  a  boat 
with  Danes,  who  wished  me  welcome !  There  was  much  to 
hear,  and  much  to  answer  I  Danish  tongues  expressed  their 
love  for  Denmark,  and  enthusiasm  for  Greece  ;  but  we  could 
only  speak  at  a  distance,  for  our  ship  lay  under  quarantine, 
and  could  not  be  released  before  the  third  day. 

The  day  went  swiftly  on,  and  in  the  evening  a  scene  began 
which  I  cannot  describe.  The  mountains  Hymettus  and  Pen- 
telicon, which  by  daylight  had  a  grayish  appearance,  became 


ARRIVAL   AT  ATHENS.  101 

red  at  sunset,  as  if  they  were  formed  of  all  the  roses  in  Greece. 
The  whole  valley  had  a  pale  red  tinge,  yet  not  as  if  we  saw 
the  valley  through  a  rose-colored  veil ;  no,  it  was  no  airy  mist ; 
every  object  was  so  clear,  so  strangely  nigh,  and  yet  the  eye 
felt  that  it  was  miles  distant.  ^Egina  and  the  mountains  on 
Morea  had  more  of  a  lilac  color  ;  the  one  range  of  mountains 
which  rose  behind  the  other  gradually  changed  its  tone  from 
the  pale  red  to  the  dark  blue.  The  sun  went  down,  the  even- 
ing gun  sounded,  and  the  flags  were  lowered.  What  soli- 
tude !  not  a  tree,  not  a  bush  to  be  seen !  what  stillness 
amongst  these  mountains,  what  quiet  over  this  extended  plain, 
and  what  transparency  in  this  atmosphere  !  Jupiter  already 
glitters  high  above  ;  the  Great  Bear  appeared  still  further  off, 
but,  as  I  continued  to  gaze,  it  approached  nearer  with  the 
night  j  the  stars  swarmed  forth  more  and  more  as  if  that  vast 
space  would  be  filled  with  globes,  as  if  that  blue  ground  must 
be  shut  out  by  one  radiant  light.  The  stars  shone  through  the 
air,  they  shone  in  the  water  with  the  blue  tinge  of  diamonds. 
The  sailors'  song  sounded  from  Piraeus  ;  a  fire  was  lighted  on 
the  beach ;  people  came  with  lights  in  their  hands  out  of 
doors  :  sometimes  we  heard  the  splashing  of  an  oar  in  the 
water  as  a  boat  passed,  or  else  all  was  still ;  even  the  sea-gulls 
which  had  screamed  around  us  had  gone  to  roost. 

What  a  holy  temple  with  monuments,  graves,  and  great 
reminiscences !  The  evening's  silence  was  the  most  touching 
mass  for  the  dead. 


IV. 

ARRIVAL   AT   ATHENS. 

IT  was  our  third  morning  at  Piraeus,  and  our  hour  of  free- 
dom struck.  I  believe  there  lay  above  a  dozen  Greek  boats 
about  our  vessel.  I  sprang  into  the  first  at  hand,  and  we 
rowed  briskly  toward  land,  where  there  were  a  number  of 
cabriolets,  old  chariots,  and  open  carriages  ;  they  all  appeared 
to  have  served  their  time,  perhaps  in  Italy ;  and  now  in  their 
old  age  had  wandered  into  Greece  to  sen'e  anew. 

Only  a  few  years  since  a  morass  extended  between  Piraeus 


1 62  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

and  Athens,  around  which  camels  journeyed,  laden  with  goods ; 
now  there  is  an  excellent  high-road,  and  a  very  good  khan  or 
inn  ;  we  travel  this  road,  which  is  about  four  or  five  English 
miles  in  length,  for  a  mere  nothing.  All  our  luggage  was 
crammed  into  an  old  carriage,  which  was  quite  filled  with 
portmanteaus  and  travelling  bags  that  peeped  out  of  the  win- 
dows ;  the  travellers  themselves  were  in  three  large  carriages. 
Behind  the  one  in  which  I  sat  there  was  a  fine,  smartly  dressed 
Greek,  who  was  a  messenger  from  the  "  Hotel  de  Munich  "  in 
Athens.  He  was  so  richly  clothed,  that  if  he  had  been  at  a 
masquerade  in  the  North  he  might  well  have  passed  for  an 
oriental  prince. 

We  rolled  rejoicing  out  of  Piraeus.  Sailors,  in  their  glazed 
hats,  sat  outside  coffee-houses,  which  really  appeared  to  me 
like  large  rooms  of  planks.  They  gave  us  a  "  hurra"  empty- 
ing their  wine-glasses.  The  way  passed  over  the  remains  of 
the  antique  walls,  which  once  consisted  of  a  species  of  yel- 
low travertine,  and  which  still  form  the  basis  of  the  rocks  here. 
We  went  at  a  gallop ;  there  was  a  terrible  dust,  but  then  it 
was  classic  dust 

We  soon  reached  the  olive  grove  —  Minerva's  sacred  olive 
grove  !  A  wooden  shop  was  erected  on  each  side  of  the  road. 
Citrons  and  oranges  were  exhibited,  whose  temptation  was 
heightened  by  a  row  of  bottles  in  which  were  wine  and  liquors. 
Whilst  our  horses  baited,  there  came  beggars  with  large  pew- 
ter cups ;  we  gave  something  to  all,  for  they  were  Greeks. 

We  pass  at  this  day,  as  in  the  best  days  of  Athens,  from  Pi- 
raeus through  the  large  olive  grove.  Before  us  lay  the  Acropolis, 
which  I  had  so  often  seen  in  pictures ;  but  now  it  was  before 
me  in  reality !  The  steep  Lycabettus,  with  its  shining  white 
hermitage,  stood  distinctly  forth,  and  I  saw  Athens  !  A  few 
paces  from  the  city,  close  by  the  road  to  the  right,  stands  the 
Temple  of  Theseus,  so  large  and  perfect,  with  its  fine  marble 
columns  which  have  become  a  yellow-brown  by  time. 

I  could  not  rightly  bring  myself  to  think  that  I  was  in 
Greece,  and  that  I  was  entering  Minerva's  city.  Hermes 
Street,  the  largest  in  Athens,  is  also  the  first  which  is  entered 
by  the  traveller  coming  from  Piraeus  ;  but  it  commences  with  a 
row  of  houses  which  a  European  must  pronounce  most  miser 


ARRIVAL   AT  ATHENS.  163 

able  and  poor.  By  degrees,  however,  better  and  larger  onet 
with  two  stories,  as  in  the  town  on  Syra,  present  themselves  ; 
nevertheless,  there  was  something,  within  me  at  least,  that  whis- 
pered, "  Here  is  the  capital  of  Greece  !  " 

The  Acropolis  stood  like  a  gigantic  throne  high  above  all 
the  small  houses,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  street  through 
which  we  drove  stood  a  palm-tree,  higher  than  I  had  ever  be- 
fore seen  one  ;  a  small  barricade  of  rough  planks  surrounded 
the  stem,  otherwise  it  would  soon  be  destroyed  by  the  Greeks, 
who  stand  up  in  the  old  vehicles  and  drive  past  as  if  they 
were  running  a  race.  Of  all  things  around  us  this  palm-tree 
drew  our  attention  most.  I  afterward  learned  that  when  the 
street  was  paved,  the  palm-tree  was  to  have  been  cut  down  be- 
cause it  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  but  our  countryman, 
Professor  Ross  from  Holstein,  begged  that  it  might  be  spared  ; 
and  it  was  permitted  to  stand.  I  therefore  christen  it  "  Ross's 
palm  "  —  and  from  this  time  all  travellers  and  writers  of  trav- 
els will  be  pleased  to  call  it  by  its  proper  name !  We  further 
charge  all  Greeks  to  remember  that  their  land  forms  the 
bridge  from  Europe  to  the  East :  and  accordingly  that  they 
ought  to  cherish  all  oriental  ornaments  that  intimate  this  fact ; 
and  this  palm-tree  is  a  brilliant  ornament,  for  we  find  but  two 
or  three  remaining  in  Athens. 

We  stopped  at  the  "  Hotel  de  Munich  "  ;  the  landlord  is  a 
Greek,  the  landlady  German  ;  "  die  schone  Wienerinn,"  she  is 
called.  They  gave  me  the  best  room,  and  it  was  just  such  a 
one  as  we  find  in  every  little  German  town  in  a  third-rate  inn. 
I  had  now  a  home  —  a  home  in  Athens. 

I  will  endeavor  to  convey  the  first  impression  the  city  made 
on  me,  and  relate  how  I  passed  the  first  day  there. 

The  terrible  description  they  had  given  me  in  Naples,  of 
Greece,  and  particularly  of  Athens,  I  found  was  absurdly  ex- 
travagant, for  although  I  really  believe  that  six  or  seven  years 
ago  everything  here  was  in  the  most  wretched  state,  yet  we 
must  remember  what  one  year  alone  is  able  to  effect  for  a  land 
like  Greece,  which  is  in  a  state  of  development  more  rapid  than 
tfiat  of  any  other  land  in  Europe.  It  is  as  if  we  should  com- 
pare the  perceptible  advance,  in  an  intellectual  sense,  of  the 
child,  with  the  less  striking  progress  in  the  grown  man  ;  seven 


l6d  *   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

months  are  to  the  child  what  seven  years  are  to  the  man. 
Athens  appeared  to  me  as  large  as  a  Danish  provincial  town,  — 
for  instance,  Elsinore,  —  and  looked  like  a  town  that  had  been 
built  up  in  the  greatest  haste  for  a  market,  which  was  now  in  full 
activity.  What  are  called  bazaars  here,  are  common  crooked 
streets,  with  wooden  houses  on  both  sides ;  wooden  houses 
such  as  we  see  at  a  Danish  fair,  and  dressed  out  with  scarfs, 
variegated  stockings,  whole  suits  of  clothes,  and  morocco 
shoes ;  a  little  clumsy  but  motley  to  look  upon  !  Here  is 
meat  of  all  kinds  ;  here  is  fruit ;  here  hang  fez  or  caps  ;  here 
they  sell  old  and  new  books.  The  cab-driver  buys  himself 
one,  and  what  is  it  ?  Homer's  "  Iliad,"  printed  in  Athens  in 
1839.  I  read  the  title  myself. 

Athens  has  a  few  Greek,  or  rather  Turkish  coffee-houses, 
and  a  new  Italian  one,  so  large  and  handsomely  furnished, 
that  it  would  look  well  in  Hamburg  or  Berlin.  The  much  fre- 
quented Cafd  Greco  in  Rome  is  but  a  sand-hole  under  the  stairs 
compared  to  this.  I  saw  in  this  hotel  young  Greeks  all  in  the 
national  dress,  but  so  tightly  laced  that  they  must  have  been 
blue  and  green  about  the  ribs,  with  eye-glass,  and  glad  gloves, 
smoking  their  cigars,  and  playing  billards.  They  were  real 
Greek  dandies  ;  they  only  required  to  change  their  costume  to 
be  loungers  in  any  other  European  city.  At  the  corner  of 
the  street  stood  Maltese  porters.  There  was  a  whole  row  of 
them  in  the  sun,  like  the  street  porters  in  Copenhagen. 

Athens  is  a  place  which  seems  to  grow  during  the  few  days 
the  stranger  stays  there.  The  King's  new  palace  rises  between 
the  city  and  Hymettus ;  it  is  a  marble  building,  for  which 
every  stone  is  hewed  and  shaped  on  the  Pentelicon  hard  by ; 
the  entrance  hall  is  already  covered  with  portraits  of  Greek 
heroes  of  the  period  of  the  war  for  freedom.  The  Univer- 
sity was  yet  building,  and  a  Dane  is  the  architect.1  A  few 
churches  and  private  dwellings  for  the  ministers  and  merchants 
grow  hour  by  hour ;  and  who  are  the  many  workmen  ?  They 
are  almost  all  Greeks,  as  I  was  told.  They  are  peasants, 
soldiers,  and  robbers,  who  have  seized  the  hammer,  the  saw, 
and  the  brick.  They  have  looked  a  little  at  the  foreign  work- 
men, and  have  become  bricklayers,  smiths,  and  carpenters  at 
once.  The  Greeks  are  truly  an  intelligent,  clever  people  ! 
1  The  Danish  architect.  Christian  Hansen. 


ARRIVAL  AT  ATHENS,  165 

The  first  impression  Athens  made  on  me  far  surpassed 
what  I  had  been  led  to  expect  from  the  representations  they 
had  awakened  in  me  at  Naples.  I  said  so ;  and  Ross  told 
me  about  a  Greek  who  had  been  in  Athens  a  few  days  before 
—  a  Greek  from  Chios,  Homer's  native  isle,  who,  according  to 
his  station  in  life  and  associates,  might  be  called  well-bred  ; 
but  he  had  never  before  seen  a  large  town,  and  accordingly 
he  was  quite  astonished  at  the  greatness  and  the  luxury  he 
found  in  the  capital  of  Greece.  Every  moment  he  expressed 
his  astonishment  at  what  he  saw ;  and  when  one  who  had 
seen  him  there  for  a  fortnight  said  that  now,  certainly,  he 
must  know  every  part  of  Athens  by  heart,  he  exclaimed : 
"  By  heart !  one  can  never  know  such  a  town !  Here  is 
always  someting  to  see  and  hear.  What  a  number  of  places 
of  amusement !  How  many  comforts  and  conveniences.  Here 
are  carriages  to  drive  in.  Here  is  delightful  music  every  day 
before  the  King's  palace.  Here  are  coffee-houses  with  news- 
papers, theatres  where  they  perform  plays  and  operas.  It  is 
a  wonderful  city  !  " 

The  modern  greatness  and  luxury  of  Athens  overwhelmed 
him.  I  found  it  very  tolerable  here,  compared  to  what  I  had 
anticipated.  Thus  we  judge  differently,  according  as  our 
habits  and  customs  have  been  different. 

I  had  imagined  that  I  should  find  myself  so  strange  in 
Greece  —  so  far  away  from  home ;  and  here,  on  the  con- 
trary, I  was  quite  at  home  ;  Danes  and  Germans  were  so 
friendly  toward  me.  I  was  invited,  the  first  day,  to  a  per- 
fectly Danish  house,  to  the  Queen's  private  chaplain's,  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Liith,  from  Holstein,  who  is  married  to  a  Danish 
lady  from  Fredensborg,  and  whose  younger  sister  was  with 
her.  Our  countrymen  assembled  here.  I  met  our  Danish 
Consul  Travers,  a  Dutchman,  who  spoke  very  good  Danish. 
The  champagne  corks  flew !  My  first  night  in  Athens  ended 
with  a  visit  to  the  theatre. 

The  theatre  is  situated  at  a  short  distance  from  the  city.    It  • 
has  four  tiers  of  boxes,  prettily  decorated  ;  but  the  prettiest 
sight  was  the  audience  in  the  boxes  and  pit  in  their  Greek 
costume.     There  were  several  handsome  Greek  women  ;  but 
I  was  told  that  they  were  all  from  the  islands,  for  there  are 


1 66  A   POETS  BAZAAR. 

not  many  in  Athens  itself.  An  Italian  company  performed  \ 
the  prima  donna  had  just  before  been  condemned  by  the 
audience.  I  heard  another  prima  donna,  who  was  a  very 
poor  singer.  The  performance  itself  was  quite  a  medley. 
We  heard  the  overture  to  "  Norma,"  and  "  The  Bronze 
Horse  ; "  one  act  of  "  The  Barber  of  Seville,"  and  one  act  of 
"  La  Gazza  Ladra."  There  was  a  ballet  to  conclude  with. 

From  the  pit  we  retired  into  a  sort  of  green-room,  where 
we  got  refreshments  ;  but  there  was  not  the  least  decoration 
in  this  apartment.  We  saw  above,  and  on  all  sides,  only  the 
roughly  joined  planks.  The  long  counter  was,  also,  of  planed 
boards,  at  which  some  few  Greeks  served  coffee,  punch,  and 
orgeat. 

The  theatre,  as  I  have  said,  is  a  little  way  out  of  the  city. 
It  had,  therefore,  a  strange  effect,  to  issue  out  of  this  build- 
ing in  the  middle  of  the  night,  from  a  performance  of  "  The 
Barber  of  Seville,"  and  "  La  Gazza.  Ladra,"  and  then  find  one's 
self  under  an  oriental  firmament,  where  the  stars  shone  so 
brightly  that  we  could  make  out  to  see  the  extent  of  the  vast 
plain  encircled  by  high  mountains.  It  was  still  and  lonely  here. 
One  could  imagine  one's  self  transported  by  a  powerful  magi- 
cian to  the  barren  desert.  The  magnificent  decorations  of 
nature  mocked  the  painted  scenery ;  the  solitude  revealed  a 
drama  that  showed  how  frivolous  was  everything  within  the 
place  from  whence  we  had  come.  In  the  humiliating  contrast 
I  felt  the  classic  greatness  of  Greece. 

A  single  marble  column  stood  on  our  way  amid  gravel  and 
heath-plants :  no  one  knew  what  temple  it  had  adorned.  The 
people  say  that  it  is  the  pillar  to  which  Christ  was  bound  when 
his  executioners  scourged  him  ;  and  they  believe  that  the 
Turks  have  thrown  it  into  the  sea,  but  that  it  returns  here 
every  night.  The  white  pillar  stood  in  the  solitude,  and 
pointed  in  the  starlight  night  toward  heaven. 


THE  ACROPOLIS.  167 

V. 

THE    ACROPOLIS. 

THIS  isolated  rock,  with  fine  marble  ruins,  is  the  heart  of 
ancient  Athens ;  its  reminiscences  extend  to  a  fabulous  age. 
When  Aaron's  almond  rod  flourished,  the  laurel-tree  of  Athens 
shot  forth  young  twigs,  and  Neptune's  salt-spring  welled  forth 
from  the  rock.1 

At  the  end  of  the  broad  street  ^Eolus,  there  is  an  extensive 
place,  necessarily  uneven,  from  its  torn  down  clay  huts  and 
ruined  walls.  The  Tower  of  the  Winds  rises,  half  dug  out 
of  the  earth  and  grass,  where  the  dervishes  lived  in  the  time 
of  the  Turks.  Two  tall  cypresses  point  mournfully  toward 
heaven.  A  Turkish  bathing-house,  with  many  cupolas,  a  soli- 
tary palm,  and  a  splashing  fountain,  are  the  most  picturesque 
objects  around. 

I  wandered  over  the  place.  By  the  fountain  stood  a  pretty 
Greek  girl,  with  her  pitcher  on  her  shoulder.  It  was  a  little 
picture,  but  a  much  greater  one  lay  before  me.  A  green  hill, 
behind  which  was  a  chalk  cliff,  rose  above  the  irregularly 
built  houses,  where  a  flock  of  sheep  grazed  in  company  with 
five  or  six  young  camels.  The  latter  stretched  out  their  long 
necks,  and  proudly  extended  their  nostrils  as  they  threw  up 
their  heads.  The  ruins  of  a  devastated  fortification  extended 
over  this  plain.  The  path  wound  along  by  it  over  stones  and 
gravel,  past  deep,  uninclosed  wells,  the  one  close  by  the  other. 
I  followed  this  path,  and  the  houses  and  city  soon  lay  be- 
hind me. 

Every  spot  here  is  historical :  at  every  step  we  tread  on 
holy  ground.  That  mighty  rock  to  the  left,  which  seems  to 
have  been  torn  from  the  Acropolis  by  some  convulsion  of  na- 
rure,  is  the  place  where  the  Apostle  Paul  preached  to  the 
\thenians.  A  solitary  shepherd  now  sat  there  with  his  two 

1  Fourteen  hundred  years  before  the  birth  of  Christ,  Cecrops  brought  a 
cxlony  from  Sais  to  Greece,  and  erected  the  Castle  of  Cecropia  on  the 
rock.  The  graves  of  Cecrops  and  Erectheus  have  been  discovered.  In 
the  time  of  Pericles,  the  present  Parthenon  was  erected  by  Phidias,  and 
ihe  architects  Iktinos  and  Kalhcratides. 


1 68  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

dogs,  and  looked  over  the  extensive  plain  where  the  olive 
groves  grow.  But  I  only  regarded  this  picture  slightly,  and 
let  my  eye  glide  over  the  foundation  of  the  rock  with  its 
hewn  steps,  —  the  place  where  Solon  and  Plato  have  spoken 
The  Acropolis  was  the  chief  aim  of  my  walk  ;  the  Acropo- 
lis had  all  my  thoughts  ;  the  extended  sea  and  the  pictur- 
esque mountains  of  Morea  alone  arrested  my  attention  for  a 
few  moments. 

I  entered  the  walls  of  the  fortification  erected  in  the  Turks' 
time,  through  an  open  gate,  whose  old  iron-covered  door 
hung  on  one  hinge  ;  some  tombstones  of  marble  with  inscrif  • 
tions  on  them  served  as  a  cornice  to  the  gate.  Just  beneath, 
there  still  lies  the  so-called  Herod's  Theatre,  with  its  lofty 
arches  of  large,  square-hewn  stones  forming  a  semicircle. 

I  had  now  to  pass  through  a  little  court-yard,  formed  of 
the  ruined  fortifications  ;  a  string  hung  on  the  miserable  gate  ; 
the  wooden  latch  sprang  up,  and  I  stood  in  a  somewhat  larger 
yard,  where  they  had  erected  a  little  guard-house  of  the  bro- 
ken marble  pillars,  despoiled  bass-reliefs,  and  broken  bricks. 
Greek  soldiers  half-dressed,  some  with  the  coarse  military 
frock  thrown  loosely  over  their  shoulders,  lay  in  different 
groups  smoking  their  paper  cigars ;  one  played  the  man 
dolin  and  sang  a  Greek  song. 

A  few  paces  further,  and  the  road  passes  between  heaped 
up  marble  blocks  and  overthrown  columns  ;  the  unwinged 
Goddess  of  Victory's  temple,  the  mighty  Propylea,  and  a  ru- 
inous Gothic  tower,  from  the  Middle  Ages,  stand  before  us. 

This  ascent  is,  and  always  has  been,  the  only  one  leading 
to  the  Acropolis  ;  from  all  other  sides  the  rocks  rise  steep, 
and  strong  walls  on  the  top  make  it  still  more  inaccessible. 

Under  the  Turkish  dominion,  the  colonnades  of  Propylea 
were  walled  up,  and  formed  a  part  of  the  battery.  The  fluted 
marble  columns  now  stand  detached,  and  broken  marble  fig- 
ures, dug  out  of  the  gravel,  are  placed  up  in  rows  on  the  snow- 
white  floor.  The  wind  blew  strong  up  here  ;  it  whistled 
through  the  large  pillars,  which  cast  deep  shadows  in  the  sun- 
shine. 

I  passed  through  the  Propylea,  and  then  stood  on  a  place 
so  disordered,  so  devastated,  that  I  have  never  before  seen 


THE  ACROPOLIS.  169 

the  like.  It  was  as  if  an  earthquake  had  shaken  the  gigantic 
columns  and  cornices  together ;  here  was  no  longer  a  road  or 
path.  I  made  my  way  over  the  ruins  of  clay  cabins,  dating 
from  the  time  of  the  Turks,  where  grass  and  acanthus  shot 
richly  forth.  Here  and  there  were  seen  demolished  cisterns, 
and  wooden  sheds  in  which  they  had  piled  up  vases,  bass- 
reliefs,  and  plaster  casts ;  here  lay  human  bones,  and  rusty, 
broken  bomb-shells  from  the  Venetians'  time.  Some  few 
horses  were  grazing ;  and  in  what  looks  like  a  gravel-pit,  to  the 
left,  stood  Erectheus'  Temple  with  its  caryatides.  A  ruinous 
stone  column  fills  the  place  of  the  caryatide  which  Elgin  stole 
for  the  British  Museum.  The  skeleton  of  an  ass  lay  before  the 
excavated  marble  steps.  A  little  to  the  right  stands  the  Par- 
thenon, the  most  magnificent  ruin  on  the  Acropolis,  wonderful 
still  in  its  greatness  and  majesty.  It  is  the  temple  of  temples  , 
but  every  column  is  barbarously  shivered,  every  bass-relief  in 
the  frontispiece  and  frieze  is  disfigured ;  and  yet  it  is  surpris- 
ing how  much  of  it  is  still  standing.  During  the  siege  by  the 
Venetians  a  great  part  of  it  was  blown  into  the  air  by  the 
springing  of  the  powder-magazine.  In  the  struggle  for  liberty 
the  Parthenon  was  the  target  for  the  bombs  and  balls ;  and 
yet  these  remains  have  still  a  greatness  which  one  can  only 
conceive  by  standing  between  the  splendid  columns  that 
support  gigantic  blocks  of  marble  as  if  they  were  but  light 
beams.  A  ruinous  mosque  stands  athwart  the  interior  of  the 
temple :  it  now  serves  as  a  shed  for  the  marble  figures  of 
gods  and  emperors !  On  the  side  which  looks  toward  the 
sea  time  has  given  the  pillars  a  reddish-yellow  tinge  ;  but 
most  of  the  others  are  as  white  as  if  they  had  been  hewn  out 
of  the  marble  quarry  of  Paros  a  year  ago. 

When  I  entered,  the  whole  temple  lay  in  the  broadest  sun- 
light ;  and  as  a  background  there  rose,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  valley,  the  mountain  Hymettus,  over  whose  yellow-gray 
stone  mass,  without  a  trace  of  vegetation,  a  dark  cloud  cast 
its  heavy  shadow.  Eternal  God  !  would  that  all  mankind 
could  see  this  greatness  and  glory  !  Our  thoughts  become 
magnified  in  the  midst  of  greatness !  Every  little  feeling  was 
dead  in  my  breast ;  I  was  filled  with  joy,  peace,  and  happi- 
ness ;  and  I  bent  my  knee  in  this  immense  solitude. 


I7O  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

A  few  paces  from  me,  between  the  shivered  marble  blocks, 
where  the  wild  thistle  shot  forth,  lay  many  human  bones  : 
they  had  cast  a  skull  on  one  white  marble  block  ;  it  made  a 
strangely  powerful  impression  on  me.  The  tears  streamed 
from  my  eyes. 

The  storm  roared  between  the  columns  ;  dark  birds  of  prey 
flew  over  the  valley  of  Hymettus.  Directly  under  the  rock 
lay  Athens  extended,  looking  almost  a  city  indeed,  with  its 
white  houses  and  red  roofs.  Snow  had  fallen  on  the  moun- 
tains of  Pentelicon  and  Parnassus.  What  a  view  around  ;  yet 
it  was  most  beautiful  toward  the  sea,  which  shone  so  vast 
and  extended,  so  deeply  blue,  as  it  bore  the  white  sails  along. 
The  air  was  so  transparent,  that  I  thought  I  could  see  over 
the  whole  Peloponnesus.  I  saw  the  distant  mountain  tops 
around  Sparta;  and  toward  the  hill  where  Corinth  stands, 
the  road  appeared  very  short,  yet  it  is  several  days'  journey 
by  land.  I  saw  the  white  walls  of  the  fortification  at  Aero- 
Corinth  with  the  naked  eye,  —  even  the  angles  they  made,  and 
the  strong  shadows  they  cast 

When  I  descended  I  met  my  travelling  companion,  the  Per- 
sian from  Herat ;  he  nodded  familiarly,  gave  me  his  hand,  and 
pointed  over  the  sea.  This  was  our  leave-taking. 

During  my  stay  in  Athens,  I  visited  daily  the  Acropolis, 
whether  it  were  sunshine  or  rain !  I  celebrated  my  birthday 
by  a  visit  here  ;  here  I  read  my  letters  from  home.  The  Acrop- 
olis was  the  last  place  I  visited  at  Athens  when  I  was  about 
to  leave ;  my  thoughts  dwell  longest  on  the  Acropolis  when 
they  visit  Greece.  It  was  as  if  nature  and  art  reposed  on  my 
breast  in  this  place ;  here  I  felt  no  want,  except  that  all  my 
dear  friends  could  not  participate  with  me  in  this  spectacle. 

A  sunset,  seen  from  this  place,  is  one  of  the  most  sublime 
sights  I  know.  I  have  seen  such  a  one.  I  sat  on  the  steps 
of  the  Parthenon  ;  everything  was  void  and  dead  toward 
Hymettus  ;  black  birds  flew  over  the  valley  where  a  single 
white  column  stands.  An  ass  brayed  down  there,  and  it 
sounded  like  the  screams  of  a  jackal  ;  the  sun  sank  behind 
the  Bay  of  Salamis,  and  the  mountains  shone  with  the  most 
powerful  colors.  ^Egina  was  as  blue  as  the  freshest  violets. 
The  same  colors,  the  same  forms  of  the  mountains,  were  seen 


A  RAINY  DAY  IN  ATHENS.  171 

• 

by  Plato,  Socrates,  and  the  great  men  of  that  world  from  the 
same  spot  as  that  from  which  I  myself  saw  them.  It  was 
the  same  earth  they  had  trodden.  I  felt,  for  a  moment,  that 
I  was  living  in  those  times.  The  sun  went  down,  and  the  glit- 
tering stars  streamed  forth  over  the  dilapidated  temples.  I 
felt  that  God's  work  is  eternal,  man's  perishable ;  but  I  drank 
life's  poetry  from  both,  which  (if  God  allows  it  to  flourish  and 
expand)  shall  refresh  the  heart  of  man. 


VI. 

A   RAINY    DAY    IN    ATHENS. 

THICK,  heavy  clouds  hung  over  the  mountain  of  Hymettus  ; 
the  weather  was  gray  and  cold;  the  unpaved  street  was 
covered  with  a  yellow  mud,  caused  by  the  rain  during  the 
night ;  the  thin  walls  in  the  houses  ran  down  with  water. 

The  most  important  postman  in  the  country  —  a  Greek, 
who  travels  with  money  and  letters  overland  to  Patras  —  went 
by  in  his  heavy,  wet,  swollen  cloak.  He  drew  the  burdened 
horse  along  ;  loaded  pistols  hung  over  its  neck  :  it  dragged  its 
legs  after  it.  The  postman  stopped  at  the  apothecary's,  and 
they  rubbed  the  poor  animal's  lame  legs  with  salve. 

The  rain  fell  in  large  drops,  and  soon  after  came  down  in  a 
leavy  shower.  Three  different  flocks  of  sheep  stood  in  the 
narrow  space  before  the  church.  They  huddled  closer  and 
closer  together.  The  shepherds  leaned  on  their  long  staves  in 
the  midst  of  the  rain,  closely  wrapped  up  in  thick  brown  man- 
tles, with  their  clumsy  hats  pulled  down  over  their  heads  ; 
they  looked  more  like  Greenlanders  than  we  imagine  Greeks 
to  be.  They  stood  bare-legged  in  the  yellow  mud.  The  rain 
poured  down  throughout  the  day,  and  was  not  until  evening 
that  it  began  to  abate  ;  the  wind  tore  the  clouds  asunder,  and 
drove  them  away  like  mists. 

I  ventured  out.  I  saw  a  few  black  families,  who  had  been 
slaves  undjer  the  Turks,  creep  out  of  their  low  clay  houses. 
The  woman's  whole  dress  consisted  of  a  sort  of  loose  gown 
and  a  dirty  petticoat.  She  lay  and  baled  water  out  over  the 


172  A   FOETUS  BAZAAR. 

threshold,  whilst  the  little  black  children  —  one  had  only  a  red 
woolen  shirt  on  —  danced  in  the  mud 

The  whole  extent  from  this,  the  last  house  in  the  street,  and 
out  to  the  Pentelicon  and  the  mountains  of  Parnassus,  ap- 
peared wild,  and  without  road  or  path.  A  man  in  a  sheepskin 
jacket,  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  rode  over  the  heath  ;  the 
wife  and  a  grown  daughter  ran  behind ;  the  woman  had  a  little 
child  in  a  bag  on  her  back  ;  under  one  arm  she  had  an  iron 
pot,  and  under  the  other  an  empty  pig-skin,  in  which  there 
had  been  wine.  The  daughter  carried  a  large  bundle.  They 
talked  aloud  and  joyously.  The  man  turned  gravely  round 
and  nodded,  then  rode  on  quicker,  and  the  wife  and  daughter 
held  on  by  the  horse's  tail,  that  they  might  keep  up  with  him. 
Everything  there  was  as  it  should  be :  all  found  themselves  in 
their  right  place,  according  to  their  habits. 

What  a  picture  !  Those  naked  mountains  where  the  cloud 
lies  thick  and  heavy,  as  if  it  would  stream  down  in  torrents  on 
the  valley,  and  the  valley  itself  without  cabins,  without  the 
shepherd's  torch,  only  with  its  pale  gray  thyme,  and  this  wan- 
dering family  !  Is  this  Greece  ?  Why  do  the  misdeeds  of  the 
parents  rest  on  the  children  through  a  hundred  generations  ? 

Along  the  broad  beaten  road  where,  ages  since,  young 
spirited  Athenians  exultingly  betook  themselves  to  Plato's 
academy,  the  poor,  half-tired  peasant  now  rides  through  the 
tall  heather ;  the  ass  knows  the  way  it  has  to  go.  The  place 
which  Plato  has  made  sacred,  the  place  from  which  the  mind's 
light  streamed  over  the  rest  of  Europe,  now  discloses  but  a 
large  clump  of  stunted  olive-trees.  The  sand  hill  close  by  is 
Colonos,  to  which  the  immortal  name  of  CEdipus  is  joined  for- 
ever. 

I  took  my  way  thither  over  the  wet  heath.  A  gutter,  which 
is  only  a  little  above  the  surface  of  the  earth  in  some  places, 
and  then  has  a  sort  of  stone  covering,  is  now  the  aqueduct 
from  the  mountains  to  Athens.  One  only  observes  it  where  it 
is  half  destroyed,  as  the  shepherds  and  herdsmen,  in  order  to 
procure  water  for  their  cattle,  have  taken  away  several  of  the 
covering  stones,  and  thrown  them  aside.  The  loosened  earth 
falls  down  into  the  water  after  the  shower,  and  pollutes  it. 

I  stood  on  Colonos.    A  walled  grave,  in  the  form  of  a  large 


THE  RHAPSODISTS. 


'73 


coffin,  is  found  up  here.  They  buried  here,  a  short  time  ago,  a 
man  to  whom  science  owes  much,  —  namely,  the  German  K. 
O.  Mu'ller.  His  ashes  rest  in  that  land  where  he  felt  himself 
happiest ;  the  soil  he  loved  received  his  dust.  Young  and 
contented,  in  the  midst  of  his  congenial  labors,  with  no  ex- 
pectations of  him  yet  disappointed,  he  found  death  !  What 
could  be  happier  ? 

I  leaned  against  the  wet  tomb,  and  wished  for  what  I  have 
always  wished  —  a  short  and  brilliant  life  !  And  the  wind 
blew  sharp  and  cold  from  the  mountains ;  watery  clouds 
drove  past  me ;  but  even  amid  this  northern  aspect,  nothing 
led  my  thoughts  toward  the  North.  A  greatness  lay  in  the 
whole  landscape  which  not  even  Switzerland  possesses ;  there 
the  mountains  oppress  ;  here  the  valleys  are  as  large  as  the 
mountains.  Greece  in  her  sorrow  is  too  majestic  for  us  to 
weep  over ;  we  are  elevated  by  it 


VII. 

THE   RHAPSODISTS. 

THE  Greeks  have  a  species  of  itinerant  musicians  —  rhap- 
sodists  —  mostly  old  blind  men,  each  a  true  Homer  in  his  ex- 
terior ;  yet  there  are  also  young  lads  who,  from  inclination, 
possessing  musical  talents,  have  chosen  this  way  of  life.  They 
know  an  incredible  number  of  songs,  which  they  sing  by  the 
watch-fires  on  the  mountains,  or  by  the  hearth  of  the  rich 
Greek,  and  even  execute  whole  pieces  of  music  on  the  mando- 
lin. I  have  heard  their  songs  and  melodies  to  the  national 
dances. 

I  had  determined  to  make  an  excursion  to  Delphi  at  the 
close  of  March,  and  to  pass  the  second  of  April,  my  birthday, 
on  Parnassus,  —  the  real  Parnassus  ;  but  the  gods  willed  it 
otherwise.  The  valleys  near  Delphi  were  covered  with  snow, 
the  rivers  had  overflowed  their  banks,  and  it  was  raw  and 
cold.  I  was  obliged  to  stay  in  Athens  ;  but  yet  the  Muses 
favored  me.  I  had  both  song  and  music  that  day,  and  both 
the  most  peculiar  I  had  heard  in  Greece. 


174  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

When  I  returned  from  the  Acropolis,  where  I  had  passed 
the  morning  alone,  I  found  a  letter  on  my  table  with  an  invi- 
tation from  Ross,  stating  that,  as  I  could  not  pass  that  day 
on  Parnassus,  Parnassus  had  come  to  pass  the  day  with  me ! 
More  than  this  what  mortal  or  immortal  poet  could  expect  or 
demand?  There  were  just  then  in  Athens  two  itinerant  rhap- 
sodists,  —  young  Greeks  from  Smyrna,  —  and  they  were  to 
sing  for  me  the  best  national  songs  ;  but  we  must  hear  them 
in  the  room,  for  the  rain  and  storm  continued  without.  The 
clouds  had  stretched  their  wet  strings  down  to  the  earth,  and 
the  storm  seized  them.  A  mightier  harp  than  this  the  gods 
could  not  attune ;  and  I  was  egotistical  enough  to  attribute 
the  whole  to  my  birthday,  which  was  celebrated  by  Glaucopis 
Athene.  I  went  to  Ross.  The  rhapsodists  took  their  places ; 
they  laid  the  left  leg  upon  the  right,  and  in  this  position  they 
sat  throughout :  the  one  had  his  Venetian  mandolin  on  his 
lap,  the  other  played  the  violin,  an  instrument  which  has  only 
come  into  use  of  late  among  these  itinerant  singers.  They 
were  both  dressed  in  a  blue  Greek  dress,  and  had  a  red  fez 
on  their  head.  They  had  both  of  them  fine,  animated  faces, 
dark  eyes,  and  beautifully  penciled  eyebrows. 

I  believe  the  circumstance  was  accidental,  but  it  was  very 
peculiar.  The  order  in  which  the  songs  were  sung  formed  an 
entire  modern  Greek  history. 

They  began  with  a  Greek  song  of  complaint,  composed  by 
the  people  when  they  were  still  under  the  Turkish  yoke.  They 
sang  about  their  herds  and  their  daughters,  that  had  been 
taken  away.  It  did  not  sound  as  when  two  sing  one  and  the 
same  song.  No,  their  voices  crossed  each  other  singularly ; 
each  one  had  his  loss,  his  grief,  but  yet  it  was  the  same  story, 
the  same  suffering  which  was  expressed.  It  was  executed 
half  gently,  half  complainingly,  as  if  fear  tied  their  tongues  j 
but  at  times  the  grief  swelled  to  a  wild  scream  ;  it  was  as  if 
a  whole  people  wept ;  it  had  something  tremulous  and  heart- 
rending in  it,  like  the  song  of  the  Israelites  by  the  waters  of 
Babylon. 

Now  followed  a  song  by  Rhiga,  the  Beranger  of  Greece ; 
and  they  sang  with  much  spirit  the  strophe,  — 


THE  RHAPSODISTS.  175 

"  Sparta,  Sparta  canst  thou  sleep  ? 
Awake  thee  from  thy  deep  death-sleep !  " 

Next  they  gave  us  a  war-song  which,  in  its  melody,  had  a 
strange  resemblance  to  the  "  Marseillaise,"  and  yet  this,  as  I 
was  told,  was  original  Greek.  It  alluded  to  the  struggle  of 
the  Greeks  for  freedom.  The  rhapsodists  then  sang  the  song 
which  the  people  had  sung  on  King  Otho's  entrance  into 
Nauplia.  1  felt  myself  deeply  moved ;  a  people's  history 
written  in  musical  notes  goes  deeper  into  the  heart  than  that 
which  is  written  with  letters. 

The  younger  rhapsodist  suddenly  seized  the  chords  and 
played  a  pot-pourri  from  "  Fra  Diavolo,"  "  Robert  le  Diable," 
and  several  French  operas  on  the  violin.  It  was  horrible  !  It 
appeared  to  me  like  a  vision  which  intimated  how  all  these 
national  tunes  would  cease,  and  how  strange  songs  would 
force  their  way  in  amongst  the  people.  Even  now,  the  Greeks 
more  willingly  listen  to  the  melodies  of  Auber  than  to  their 
own  national  songs. 

They  sang  a  Turkish  song  to  conclude  with.  I  have  never 
heard  anything  more  horrible.  I  thought  at  first  that  it  was  a 
parody,  but  Ross  assured  me  that  such  was  not  the  case ;  and 
I  was  afterward  convinced  of  the  truth  of  his  assertion,  both 
in  Smyrna  and  Constantinople.  One  voice  began  quite  softly, 
uttering  words  incomprehensible  even  to  those  who  know  the 
Turkish  language.  The  voice  sounded  as  if  the  singer  mum- 
bled something  in  a  dream.  I  fancied  I  heard  an  intoxicated 
opium-eater  groaning  in  a  troubled  sleep  ;  the  whole  accom- 
paniment consisted  of  a  thrumming  on  one  and  the  same 
string,  and  always  the  same  note.  There  was  something  so 
terribly  despairing  in  this  song  ;  and  the  burden  sounded  as 
if  the  singer  had  awoke  and  screamed  —  as  if  he  were  about 
to  be  murdered. 

When  the  rhapsodists  left  us,  they  each  seized  our  hands, 
kissed  them,  and  then  laid  them  on  their  foreheads  according 
to  Greek  custom.  I  was  quite  moved  with  what  I  had  heard. 
In  the  forenoon,  Greek  songs ;  in  the  evening,  a  national 
dance ;  it  was  a  real  festal  day.  The  Queen's  chaplain, 
Liith,  procured  me  this  latter  diversion.  The  dance  was  one 
of  the  popular  kind.  His  two  Greek  man-servants,  an  old 


176  A   POETS  BAZAAR. 

coffee-house  keeper,  and  two  young  workmen  from  the  city 
performed  the  dances.  The  rhapsodists  made  the  violin  and 
mandolin  resound  ;  and  now  and  then  one  of  them  sang  a 
short  sentence,  conveying  a  sentiment  or  a  challenge  to  mirth, 
such  as  :  "  Enjoy  yourselves  ! "  "  Life  is  short !  "  "  Love  is 
sorrow  !  "  "  Love  is  delight !  "  "  Dance,  ye  youths !  " 

The  whole  row  moved  with  grace  over  the  floor.  The  one 
who  was  at  the  head  stepped  forward  as  a  sort  of  dancing- 
chorus-leader ;  the  others  regarded  his  steps  and  positions, 
which  they  imitated.  The  nursery-maid  in  the  house,  a  Greek 
girl  from  Zea,  who  was  very  pretty,  had  put  on  her  best  dress  ; 
the  turban,  in  particular,  suited  well  with  her  dark  hair  and 
beautiful  forehead.  She  now  began  a  dance,  peculiar  to  her 
country,  with  two  of  the  men.  Nothing  more  charming  could 
be  wished  for,  and  yet  they  were,  as  I  have  said,  all  of  the 
common  class  of  the  people.  She  did  not  hold  the  men  by 
the  hands,  but  by  their  belts  ;  they  touched  the  upper  part  of 
her  arm ;  and  at  first  they  moved  slowly  forward,  then  back 
again  ;  all  her  motions  intimated  peace  ;  those  of  the  men,  on 
the  contrary,  signified  life  and  passion  ;  she  appeared  to  wind 
herself  from  them  —  they  held  her  fast.  Their  looks  and 
mien  expressed  strong  feelings,  but  only  one  was  favored. 

After  they  had  sung  and  danced  for  us,  some  of  our  party 
danced  a  Tyrolese  dance  for  them,  which  seemed  to  entertain 
them,  for  they  imitated  the  positions  of  the  dancers  during 
the  dance.  One  of  the  rhapsodists  who,  as  they  said,  had 
some  poetic  talents,  begged  the  favor  to  hear  a  song  from  the 
North,  "  an  hyperborean  song,"  as  he  expressed  himself. 

I  then  sang  him  the  song  about  the  Danish  peasant  who 
begged  that  he  might  bear  the  body  of  King  Frederick  to  its 
last  resting-place.1  And  he  heard  how  the  people  sang  from 
the  city  walls  a  deep  and  sorrowful  farewell,  as  the  hearse  was 
driven  along  the  snow-covered  road  by  torch-light  ;  how  a 
small  candle  was  placed  in  the  window  of  the  poorest  cabi? 
by  the  way-side,  where  stood  old  men  and  women  with  their 
grandchildren  ;  how  they  saw  the  torches  burning,  and  folded 
their  hands,  and  said :  "  Now  comes  the  King's  corpse  1 " 

1  A  funeral  dirge  over  Frederick  VI.,  with  music  by  J.  P.  E.  Hart 


DAPHNE. 


177 


And  as  I  sang  the  song,  I  saw  tears  in  the  young  girl's  eyes. 
The  younger  of  the  rhapsodists  begged  that  he  might  heat 
the  words  of  the  song  once  more. 

"  He  was  a  good  King,"  said  he  ;  and  looked  at  me  with 
a  look  of  entreaty  to  repeat  the  melody  ;  and  I  sang  it. 

When  I  left  the  house  it  was  late  in  the  evening,  and  the 
two  rhapsodists  accompanied  me.  The  rain  had  ceased,  but 
light  and  transparent  watery  clouds  were  driving  across  the 
sky,  through  which,  nevertheless,  we  could  see  the  glistening 
stars.  On  one  side  lay  the  large  silent  plain  stretching  to- 
ward the  high  mountains. 

It  was  as  still  as  a  night  in  Roeskilde  Cathedral,  where  King 
Frederick  rests. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  rhapsodists  seized  his  violin,  and 
played  some  parts  of  the  melody,  "  The  Danish  Peasant  and 
King  Frederick  ! "  Perhaps  he  will  compose  a  song  himself 
after  what  he  has  heard,  and  sing  it  among  the  Greek  moun- 
tains, and  under  the  shady  plantains  of  Asia  —  a  song  about 
the  King  in  the  North,  who  was  borne  to  his  tomb  by  the  sor- 
rowing peasants. 

VIII. 

DAPHNE. 

THERE  are  several  large  corn-fields  around  Athens,  but 
without  fences  of  any  kind  to  protect  them  from  the  incur- 
sions of  pedestrians  or  equestrians,  each  of  whom  takes  his 
way  on  foot  or  on  horseback  wherever  he  chooses,  across 
the  corn.  When  I  proposed  to  go  the  circuitous  way,  they 
told  me  that  the  owners  would  be  surprised  to  hear  that  I  had 
given  myself  such  trouble.  Of  high-roads  there  is,  properly 
speaking,  but  one  good  one,  namely,  that  between  Athens  and 
Piraeus.  The  others,  that  to  Thebes  and  one  over  Eleusis  to 
Corinth,  are  yet  unfinished  ;  but  even  for  short  distances,  on 
which  we  ought,  by  this  time,  to  be  able  to  drive,  it  is  difficult 
to  get  forward,  for  the  horses  here  will  not  draw  ;  they  be- 
come refractory,  turn  about,  or  throw  themselves  down  upon 
the  ground. 


178  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

I  have  several  times  heard  the  drivers  say :  "  They  won't  go  1 
they  don't  know  these  roads !  But  if  you  will  drive  to  Piraeus 
you  shall  see  they  are  horses  that  can  run  1 "  One  is  every 
moment  obliged  to  get  out  of  the  carriage  ;  the  coachman  leads 
the  horses,  and  we  get  on  at  a  foot-pace. 

After  the  road  to  Piraeus,  that  to  Eleusis  is  certainly  the  best. 
Directly  outside  of  Athens  where  the  olive  grove  begirs,  we 
pass  the  far-famed  river  Cephissus,  now  only  consisting  of  three 
small  streams  which  many  probably  may  pass  by  without  re- 
marking. On  the  other  side  of  the  olive  grove  the  country 
assumes  a  wild  and  desert-like  appearance  ;  the  road  here  runs 
close  by  antique  traces  of  wheels  in  the  rocks  ;  it  is  broad  and 
even  down  toward  the  bay,  and  continues  direct  to  Eleusis, 
which  now  only  consists  of  about  forty  clay  cabins  and  some 
ruins  of  ancient  temples.  I  saw  about  a  dozen  fishing  boats 
in  the  harbor. 

Directly  between  Athens  and  Eleusis  stands  in  wild  soli- 
tude the  cloister  of  Daphne,1  destroyed  during  the  revolution. 
It  is  built  in  the  Moorish  style,  and  is  now  made  use  of  by  the 
gensdarmes  who  are  here  to  insure  safety  to  the  traveller. 

Daphne  is  undeniably  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  most 
picturesque  points  between  Athens  and  Eleusis.  I  visited  it 
in  company  with  Ross,  and  Philippos  Joan,2  professor  at  the 
University  of  Greece. 

They  pointed  out  to  me  ^Egina's  high,  dark-blue  mountains  : 
heavy  clouds  passed  over  the  sky  ;  the  Bay  of  Salamis  lay  cold 
and  still.  In  the  light  in  which  we  saw  it,  it  had  quite  the 
appearance  of  a  northern  lake  ;  the  rock  by  the  way-side,  over- 
grown with  thyme  and  cypress  bushes,  disclosed  a  number  of 
hewn  recesses  or  niches  in  which  votive  tablets  have  been 
placed ;  these  holes,  and  some  few  porphyry  and  marble 
blocks  here  and  there,  are  the  only  vestiges  to  remind  one  that 
the  Temple  of  Venus  once  stood  here. 

The  air  was  cold,  and  the  clouds  cast  strong  shadows  on  the 
naked  mountains :  close  by  us  lay  the  far-extended  ruins  of 
the  monastery,  partly  surrounded  by  high  walls,  in  the  fissures 

1  The  Greek  word  Daphne  signifies  a  laurel -tree. 

*  Professor  Philippos  Joan  speaks  German  extremely  well. 


DAPHNE.  179 

of  which  grew  bushes  and  creeping  plants.1  Two  wooden  sheds 
were  erected  outside ;  the  one  formed  a  sort  of  coffee-house, 
the  other  a  species  of  bazaar  for  the  few  travellers  or  peasants 
who  live  miles  away.  These  wooden  sheds,  close  to  the  ruins, 
gave  the  landscape,  as  it  were,  the  last  pencil  touch  of  Greek 
melancholy. 

We  entered  the  monastery  garden,  which  was  overgrown  with 
nettles  a  yard  high,  and  beneath  these  were  wells  without  any 
fence;  we  had  to  look  narrowly  after  them,  and  go  step  by 
step  not  to  fall  into  them,  for  they  were  concealed  by  the  net- 
tles. In  this  manner  we  came  to  the  opposite  side,  where  the 
wall  seemed  most  convenient  to  ascend,  and  we  soon  stood  on 
the  half  fallen-in  roof  of  the  church,  where  the  vegetation  was 
as  rich  as  the  building  itself  was  dilapidated.  One  of  the  steps 
up  here  was  the  inverted  cover  of  an  antique  marble  sarcoph- 
agus, another  was  the  remains  of  a  fluted  porphyry  column. 
Mignonnette,  chickweed,  and  thistles  shot  forth  everywhere. 
The  bat  flew  over  our  heads,  in  the  broad  daylight ;  here  it 
was  at  home,  here  was  its  kingdom,  even  if  the  sun  shone  on 
its  wings. 

In  the  cloister  the  monks'  cells  are  likewise  transformed 
into  a  large  stable  in  which  the  gensdarmes  keep  their  horses. 
The  church  is  a  splendid  one,  and  might  still  be  restored. 
We  stood  under  the  cupola,  on  which  is  painted  a  fine  image 
of  Christ.  The  Saviour  holds  the  Bible  in  his  left  hand,  and 
the  right  is  extended  in  the  attitude  of  benediction.  During 
the  revolution  the  Turks  encamped  here  ;  they  lighted  a  large 
fire  ;  the  walls  are  yet  black  with  smoke.  They  smoked  their 
pipes  here,  and  amused  themselves  with  shooting  at  the  Chris- 
tian's Redeemer  up  in  the  cupola,  and  their  balls  struck  one 
of  the  eyes,  the  mouth,  and  the  holy  glory ;  the  traces  are  to 
be  seen  distinctly  in  the  mosaic  image.  They  scratched  out 
the  images  of  the  saints  on  the  altar  table,  painted  gross 
pictures  over  them,  whilst  their  comrades  laughed  and  ex- 
ulted with  approbation.  A  number  of  skulls  and  bones, 

1  The  church  is  six  or  eight  hundred  years  old,  and  is  built  on  the  site 
of  a  temple  of  Apollo,  of  which  a  large  marble  column  is  to  be  seen  in 
the  walls  of  the  church.  There  were  three  of  them  not  very  many  years 
since  ;  but  the  English  took  two  away. 


l8o  A  POET'S  BAZAAR. 

found  under  bushes  and  nettles,  lay  thrown  into  a  corner, 
between  the  altar  and  the  altar  wall  used  in  the  Greek  church, 
which  has  three  passages,  and  is  painted  from  top  to  bottom 
with  holy  subjects  ;  these  also  had  been  defaced  by  the  Turks ; 
but  three  small  lamps  were  hung  up  and  burned  there. 
They  are  tended  by  an  old  Greek,  who  lives  in  the  wooden 
shed  outside,  and  who  prepares  coffee  or  pours  out  a  glass  of 
Naki l  for  the  stranger.  In  this  church  he  was  baptized,  in 
this  church  he  concluded  the  compact  of  friendship,  and  in 
this  church  he  was  married.  These  events  in  his  life  took 
place  under  the  dominion  of  the  Turks.  His  friend  fell  in 
the  war  for  freedom,  —  his  bones  perhaps  moulder  under  the 
heath  bushes  ;  his  wife  lies  buried  close  by ;  behind  the  dis- 
mantled walls  there  is  a  little  path  between  the  acanthus  and 
nettles ;  an  olive-tree  is  planted  close  by  a  fallen-in  well,  and 
under  the  olive-tree  is  his  wife's  grave. 

The  old  Greek  takes  care  of  the  lamps  within  the  disman- 
tled church;  he  and  the  soldiers  pay  their  devotions  there 
every  festival  day ;  and  sometimes  when  a  Greek  priest  comes 
by,  he  fastens  his  horse  to  the  wooden  shed,  goes  into  the 
church,  and  reads  a  mass.  The  old  Greek  is  often  his  sole 
hearer. 

In  a  few  years  he  will  also  sleep  under  the  olive-tree  ;  who 
will  then  take  care  of  the  burning  lamps  ?  who  will  mow  down 
the  nettles  from  the  grave  ? 

O,  the  lamps  will  burn,  lamps  of  silver  will  then  be  hung 
up  !  The  roses  will  bloom  where  the  nettles  now  grow ! 
The  good  genius  of  Greece  whispers  it  to  us  !  Daphne 
will  arise  from  the  sand,  here  by  the  road  to  Eleusis,  which 
will  be  frequented  by  strangers,  as  the  Italian  roads  now  are. 
Daphne  will  flourish  again  ;  in  the  yard  where  the  thistles  and 
nettles  only  grow,  the  laurel-tree  will  spread  its  branches,  the 
incense  shed  its  perfume,  and  kneeling  children  see  a  holy 
wound  in  the  eye,  mouth,  and  glory  of  Christ,  where  the  Turk 
ish  balls  once  struck. 

May  happiness  and  blessings  rest  on  that  land  which  gave 
birth  to  a  Theseus,  a  Plato,  and  a  Socrates  ! 

1  A  Greek  spirit  prepared  from  dried  grapes. 


THE  FEAST  OF  FREEDOM.  l8l 


IX. 

THE   FEAST   OF    FREEDOM. 

THE  sixth  of  April  is  the  Greek  Feast  of  Freedom.  On  that 
day  the  revolt  began  ;  on  that  day  the  first  Turkish  blood 
flowed  :  the  Cross  is  now  planted  where  the  Crescent  stood  ; 
the  Cross  stands  on  the  ruins  ;  the  stillness  of  death  reigns  in 
the  valleys  where  the  thunders  of  war  resounded.  The  flag 
of  freedom  waves  this  day  in  the  poorest  village  throughout 
the  land  ;  the  shepherd  betakes  him  to  the  church  ruins  in 
the  solitary  mountains,  hangs  up  a  burning  lamp  before  the 
scratched-out  images  on  the  riven  walls,  and  reads  his  thanks- 
giving prayer.  Greece  is  free  ! 

I  was  at  Athens  this  year  on  the  day  of  the  feast  It  was 
a  beautiful,  sunshiny  day ;  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky ;  not  a  cold 
breeze  from  the  mountains. 

The  bands  of  the  several  regiments  were  heard  through  the 
streets  in  the  morning.  I  saw  from  my  window  the  martial 
ranks  of  handsome  young  Greeks,  with  brown  faces  and 
dark  eyes ;  a  little  flag  waved  on  each  lance.  They  looked 
well,  but  they  would  have  looked  still  handsomer  if  they  had 
been  dressed  in  the  national  costume  ;  at  least  I  thought  so, 
for  in  the  uniform  of  the  Franks  they  appeared  to  me  like  for- 
eign troops.  Pretty  Greek  boys,  in  red  jackets  and  white 
fostanelles,  ran  about  the  streets.  The  superior  classes  of 
Greeks,  richly  dressed  in  splendid,  showy  colored  clothes,  with 
gold  and  silver  embroidery,  and  with  sabre  and  dagger,  stood 
in  the  balconies.  The  women  had  their  hair  in  large  plaits, 
laid  round  the  little  red  fez  ;  the  short  velvet  tunic  was  worn 
open  in  front,  displaying  a  golden  bodice.  Most  of  the  men 
and  women  had  a  branch  of  myrtle  or  a  bouquet  of  gilly- 
flowers in  their  hands.  Peasants  from  the  mountains,  in  sheep- 
skin jackets  and  with  high  caps,  leaned  proudly  against  the 
low  columns  of  the  church,  and  looked  at  the  cavalry.  A 
hundred  lamps  burned  within  the  church  ;  and  from  my  win- 
dow I  could  smell  the  incense  which  streamed  out  of  the 
open  doors.  The  Venetian  mandolin  tinkled,  and  the  white 
bearded  veteran  sang  Rhigas'  war  song :  — 


l8-»  A   POETS  BAZAAR. 

"  Ho,  wake  up,  ye  sons  of  Greece  !  " 

The  largest  church  in  Athens,  which  is  situated  in 
Street,  has  not  the  least  appearance  of  a  church,  nor  has  it 
been  erected  for  a  religious  purpose  ;  but  when  Athens  ac- 
quired a  court,  all  the  churches  were  too  small  to  contain  the 
members  of  the  royal  household,  the  corps  diplomatique,  and 
other  authorities,  as  well  as  the  people  on  festival  days.  They 
were,  therefore,  obliged  to  choose  this  building,  which  is  a 
whitewashed  house,  with  a  sort  of  veranda  of  planks  and 
beams,  and  which  has  a  small  staircase  of  rough  boards  on 
one  side,  conducting  to  a  small  door  which  leads  to  the  royal 
pew.  The  first  time  I  saw  the  building,  I  thought  it  was  a 
theatre  or  sort  of  town-hall.  To-day  the  church  was  crowded 
to  suffocation  with  the  clergy,  the  royal  family  and  suite,  the 
ministers  and  officers  of  state  alone.  The  officer  on  guard, 
however,  allowed  me  admission  as  a  stranger.  The  Greek 
bishop,  in  glittering  splendor,  took  his  place  before  the  altar, 
between  the  full-robed  priests,  who  sang  a  highly  inharmoni- 
ous song.  The  King  and  Queen,  both  in  Greek  costume,  sat 
beneath  a  velvet  canopy  adorned  with  the  crown  and  sceptre. 
The  Crown  Prince  of  Bavaria  in  uniform  had  a  place  beside 
them.  The  religious  forms  appeared  to  me  more  peculiar  and 
strange  than  really  solemn.  Whilst  the  priests  sang,  the  mili- 
tary bands  played  merrily  without  I  Their  music  sounded 
wild  and  martial,  as  if  one  were  in  the  midst  of  battle,  where 
the  priest  prays,  where  the  warrior  sings,  and  the  musket 
cracks,  — shot  after  shot  And  there  was  a  cracking  without  I 
'  Long  live  the  King  ! "  sounded  in  the  church  when  he  and 
the  Queen  drove  away.  There  were  three  or  four  carriages 
in  the  whole.  Most  of  the  diplomatists  walked :  one  felt  that 
this  was  a  kingdom  on  the  advance.  The  whole  street,  the 
balconies,  and  windows  were  filled  with  Greeks,  one  head  by 
the  side  of  the  other.  Thousands  of  red  fez,  variegated  jack- 
ets, and  white  skirts  were  displayed  in  the  sunshine.  The 
handsome  men  and  boys  were  pleasing  to  look  upon.  Of 
women  there  were  not  many,  and  those  we  saw  were  ugly. 

After  my  breakfast  I  rode  out  with  my  countrymen,  Pro- 
fessor Ross,  Koppen,  the  brothers  Hansen,  and  other  friends 
toward  the  mountains,  to  see  the  festivity  in  one  of  the  nearest 


THE  FEAST  OF  FREEDOM.  183 

villages.  We  rode  down  the  small  mountain  path  past  Lyca 
bettus  to  the  village  of  Maruzze',  the  clay  cabins  of  which,  witfi 
their  white  washed  walls  and  little  fruitful  gardens,  appeared 
very  smart.  All  the  inhabitants  sat  in  the  street,  which  was  so 
small  that  they  were  obliged  to  retire  into  the  houses  when  we 
came  riding  through.  The  flag  of  freedom  was  planted  out- 
side the  church :  it  was  white  with  a  blue  cross.  A  beauti- 
ful little  girl,  in  a  black  velvet  tunic,  the  snow-white  sleeves 
of  her  chemise  hanging  out  broad  from  the  elbow  around 
her  small  brown  arms,  sat  on  a  bundle  of  cypress  branches 
at  a  little  distance  from  the  flag,  with  a  face  so  regularly  hand- 
some, eyes  so  dark,  and  eyebrows  so  finely  penciled  that  —  I 
know  not  how  it  was,  but  this  little  one,  as  she  sat  there  on 
these  symbols  of  death,  appeared  to  me  to  be  Greece's  genius 
of  beauty,  over  whom  the  flag  of  freedom  once  more  waved. 

Our  destination  on  this  little  journey  was,  however,  the  next 
town,  Cephissia.  The  road  thither  is  called  a  carriage-road  ; 
but  even  in  Greece  it  can  only  be  a  carriage-road  for  those 
who  are  doomed  to  break  their  necks.  In  the  rest  of  Europe, 
no  one  can  form  a  conception  of  such  a  road  ;  the  worst  must, 
in  comparison  with  this,  be  called  the  broad  way  of  sin  which 
leads  comfortably  to  the  lower  regions  !  The  Greek  horses 
stand  firm  on  the  rugged  mountains,  and,  consequently,  here 
also.  The  rivulets  ran  sometimes  on  the  side  of  the  road  and 
sometimes  in  the  middle,  full  a  foot  deep  :  magnificent  laurel- 
trees  and  flourishing  Oleacese  grew  on  both  sides.  In  the 
fields  —  I  dare  scarcely  call  these  inclosures  gardens  —  were 
wild  pears  and  almond-trees.  The  herdsmen  drove  a  few 
herds  of  cattle.  We  greeted  them  in  the  Greek  manner,  with  a 
"  Met  in  a  happy  hour  ! "  and  they  answered  blithely,  "  Many 
happy  years  to  you  !  " 

When  Greece  was  under  the  Turkish  yoke,  the  village  f 
Cephissia  was  still  more  flourishing,  for  the  rich  Athenian 
Turks  had  their  summer  residences  there.  Athens  will  rise 
again  year  by  year,  and  handsome  villas  will  spring  up  in  the 
fruitful  district.  In  the  middle  of  the  village  stands  a  Turk- 
ish mosque,  which  is  now  converted  into  a  stable.  The  founda- 
tion of  the  minaret  is  the  only  part  of  it  remaining,  but  before 
it  grows  the  largest  and  finest  plantain  I  have  yet  seen. 


I  84  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

The  strong  bowed  branches  formed  a  crown  which  almost 
overshadowed  the  whole  open  place.  We  spread  our  cloaks 
out  on  the  grassy  carpet  under  the  tree,  placed  our  wine  bot 
ties  about  us,  and  made  a  meal,  surrounded  by  Greek  women, 
who,  it  being  their  fast  time,  certainly  envied  us  our  nourishing 
dishes.  After  our  repast  we  took  a  pleasant  road  through  the 
woods,  where  the  fountains  rippled,  where  everything  was  lux- 
uriant and  green,  reminding  me  of  the  fruitful  tract  between 
Naples  and  Posilippo.  Wild  fruit-trees  and  odorous  vines 
grew  round  about  the  tract  down  to  the  large  olive  grove ; 
here  were  arable  land  and  vineyards.  We  saw  what  Greece 
could  be  made,  and  it  appeared  to  me  on  this  day  of  liberty 
to  be  a  prophetic  sight. 

In  the  midst  of  the  wood  was  a  rocky  basin.  The  rivulet 
formed  small  cascades.  We  descended  the  falls  ;  the  green 
branches  hung  over  our  heads,  and  the  water  splashed  fresh 
and  clear  ;  the  sunbeams  made  the  leaves  transparent ;  the 
birds  twittered  in  the  bushes,  and  on  the  path  close  by  there 
came  a  cavalcade  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  on  horseback  in  Eu- 
ropean dresses,  who  belonged  to  the  court  of  King  Otho  ;  we 
greeted  each  other,  and  they  disappeared  behind  the  hedges. 
Now  came  one  who  had  lingered  behind,  a  young  girl  on 
horseback  in  full  Greek  costume,  and  with  the  red  fez  fastened 
on  her  jet-black  hair.  Her  royal  brow,  her  bold  dark  eyes, 
and  her  daring  carriage,  made  us  believe  that  we  saw  a  real 
Amazon.  She  darted  like  a  beautiful  vision  through  the  wood 
—  like  the  Queen  of  the  Grecian  elves  !  She  was  the  daughter 
of  the  hero  Marco  Bozzaris,  the  most  beautiful  woman  in 
Athens,  and  one  of  the  ladies  of  honor  to  the  Queen  of  Greece. 

The  sun  began  to  approach  the  mountains ;  we  mounted 
our  horses  again,  but  it  was  dark  before  we  reached  Athens. 
The  whole  Acropolis  was  illuminated  with  many  lights.  The 
effect  was  splendid  ;  the  radiance  beamed  aloft  in  the  blue  air, 
and  as  we  by  degrees  approached  Athens  we  looked  over  the 
city,  and  it  appeared  as  if  it  were  a  ray  of  glory  from  the  many 
lamps  and  lights  with  which  the  houses  were  illumined.  Can- 
dles were  fixed  in  the  balconies  ;  lustres  festooned  with  flowers 
and  covered  with  colored  lamps,  hung  across  the  street,  or 
outside  the  open  shops  ;  the  fruit  bazaars  glowed  with  light. 


THE  FEAST  OF  FREEDOM.  \  85 

and  showed  their  glowing  oranges,  dark-brown  dates,  and 
large  walnuts.  In  many  of  the  windows  were  placed  engrav- 
ings, —  portraits  of  the  poet  Rhigas,  Miaulis,  Marco  Bozzaris, 
and  King  Otho.  In  ^Eolus  Street  were  several  transparencies  ; 
on  one  we  saw  a  grave,  from  which  a  young  Greek  arose  with 
the  flag  of  freedom  in  his  hand ;  on  another  was  a  Greek  ship 
in  a  storm.  Beneath  them  all  we  read  appropriate  verses  in 
modern  Greek. 

One  transparency,  in  particular,  attracted  attention  ;  it  repre- 
sented a  goat  gnawing  a  vine  ;  the  Greek  verse  beneath  is  well 
known,  as  well  as  the  German  translation,  which  runs  thus  :  — 

"  Friszt  Du  mich  auch  bis  zur  Wurzel,  doch  trag'ich  Trauben  genug  noch 
Wein  zu  spenden,  o  Bock,  wenn  Du  — als  Opfer  erliegst !  " 

I  found  it  applied  justly  to  the  Turks,  whose  yoke  the  peo- 
ple had  groaned  under ;  however,  some  Bavarians  whom  I  met 
explained  the  verse  quite  differently,  supposing  it  was  intended 
for  them !  Certain  it  is,  that  the  Greeks  do  not  favor  these 
strangers ;  but  during  my  stay  I  never  observed  any  visible 
signs  of  dislike. 

^Eolus  Street,  the  broadest  in  Athens,  and  which  extends  in 
a  direct  line  toward  the  Acropolis,  was  crowded  with  joyous 
Greeks ;  lamps  and  candles  converted  night  into  day.  The 
bands  of  the  regiments  passed  along  playing  martial  airs.  The 
buildings  toward  the  Acropolis  formed  terraces  for  the  rows 
of  lamps;  the  red  flame  on  the  topmost  wall  of  the  city 
brought  into  view  the  old  temple  columns  in  a  flickering  light. 
Songs,  accompanied  by  the  mandolin,  sounded  from  the  open 
shops,  and  in  the  Franks'  coffee-house  there  was  a  crowd 
around  the  latest  journals,  to  see  what  the  rest  of  Europe  said 
about  the  revolt  of  the  Candians.  The  news  from  Crete,  the 
verbal  as  well  as  what  the  journals  brought,  in  a  measure 
varied ;  but  it  was  reported,  as  a  certainty,  that  arms  and  am- 
munition had  been  sent  secretly  from  the  magazine  at  Patras. 
More  than  one  cup  was  emptied  by  the  enthusiastic  Greeks  to 
the  success  of  the  Candians. 

The  report  of  muskets  and  songs  was  heard  until  far  into 
the  night  in  the  city  of  Athens,  and  in  the  stone  cabins  amongst 
the  lonely  mountains. 


I  86  A    POET'S  BAZAAR. 


THE   MARBLE    LION. 

IT  was  on  a  beautiful  sunshiny  day  that  we  trotted  merrily 
out  of  Athens  over  the  wide,  rugged  plain,  through  the  native 
place  of  Socrates,  where  wild  fruit-trees  formed  small  gardens. 
A  solitary  cloister  lay  toward  Hymettus ;  we  went  at  a  brisk 
trot,  and  my  agojal  ran  by  my  side. 

The  prospect  between  Pentelicon  and  Hymettus  opened 
upon  an  extensive  surface,  and  what  a  blue  and  shining  sea 
was  there !  We  saw  the  island  of  Zea  and  the  whole  Negro- 
pont  with  its  beautifully  formed  mountain.  On  our  way  thither, 
we  saw  only  one  single,  lonely  cabin,  with  a  rush-thatched 
roof,  reaching  nearly  to  the  ground.  The  woman  and  chil- 
dren came  out  to  see  the  strangers.  We  ordered  our  coffee 
with  her,  to  be  ready  on  our  return,  and  then  rode  away  over 
plants,  bushes,  and  tall  Oleaceae. 

All  was  wide  and  void.  The  ruins  of  a  church  stood  on 
the  heath,  with  a  magnificent  olive-tree  outside,  worthy  of 
being  painted.  Close  by  lay  a  large  marble  lion,  an  antique 
monument ;  Lais  himself  had  such  a  one  on  his  grave.  It 
was  strangely  impressive  to  find  here,  in  this  desert,  a  torso 
of  the  beautiful  works  of  art.  With  the  exception  of  the  feet, 
the  lion  is  whole  ;  the  expression  of  the  eyes  intimates  that 
a  cunning  hand  has  used  the  chisel.  The  mane  is  only  partly 
executed. 

Strong  creeping  plants  wound  up  around  its  sides,  as  if  they 
would  bind  it  to  the  grave  it  adorned  —  that  grave  which  no 
one  knew. 

As  we  stood  here  and  regarded  it,  a  herdsman  stepped  sud- 
denly forth  from  the  church  ruins  ;  he  was  singing,  but  stopped 
on  seeing  us.  It  was  a  melancholy  song  he  sang,  which 
my  companions  knew  well.  It  was  genuine  Athenian.  We 
begged  him  to  repeat  it ;  he  leaned  against  the  marble  lion, 
and  sang  about  the  bewitched  lover. 

And  the  sun  shone  on  the  white  marble  lion  which  the  wild 
plants  held  bound  ;  the  sun  shone  on  the  handsome,  sorrowful 
Greek  who  sang,  and  on  the  extended  landscape  around,  which 


THE  EASTER  FESTIVAL  IN  GREECE.  187 

presented  a  picture  of  greatness  and  solitude.  That  melan- 
choly tone  in  the  song  overlaid  the  whole  expanse  of  the 
scenery  ;  it  intruded  itself  into  our  minds,  and  did  not  desert  us 
when  we  entered  the  lonely  cottage,  where  all  the  light  there 
was  came  through  the  open  door.  The  woman  stood  raking 
some  large  black  loaves  out  of  the  hot  ashes  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor  ;  painted  eggs  of  different  colors  were  stuck  in  each 
loaf  in  honor  of  Easter.  The  man  stood  quite  carelessly,  and 
looked  at  his  wife's  work.  A  little  boy  played  in  the  door- 
way. I  gave  him  a  small  coin  ;  he  smiled  quite  pleased,  and 
told  me  his  name  was  Demetrius.  The  black  loaves  with  the 
painted  eggs  made  his  festival :  he  was  happy  in  anticipation 
of  them,  and  had  waited  with  anxiety  for  the  hour  when  they 
were  to  be  taken  out  of  the  ashes.  That  dark  cabin  was  his 
paradise;  the  marble  lion  his  riding-horse:  his  mother  had 
often  placed  him  on  its  back,  whilst  she  gathered  heath-ber 
ries  by  the  walls  of  the  ruined  church. 


XI. 

THE   EASTER   FESTIVAL   IN   GREECE. 

THE  Easter  of  the  Catholics  in  Italy,  and  particularly  in 
Rome,  is  grand,  fascinating ;  it  is  an  elevating  sight  to  see  that 
immense  mass  of  beings  fall  on  their  knees  in  St.  Peter's 
Place,  and  receive  a  benediction.  The  Easter  festival  in 
Greece  cannot  show  such  magnificence,  its  resources  are 
too  small ;  but  after  having  seen  both,  one  comes  to  the  con- 
viction that  in  Rome  it  is  a  feast  which  in  its  glory  and  splen- 
dor issues  out  from  the  Church  to  the  people  ;  but  in  Greece 
it  is  a  feast  which  streams  from  the  heart  and  thoughts  of  the 
people  —  from  their  very  life  ;  the  Church  is  but  a  link  in  the 
chain.  Previous  to  Easter  there  is  a  long  and  rigorous  fast 
which  is  religiously  observed,  the  peasants  living  almost  en- 
tirely on  bread,  onions,  and  water. 

The  Athenian  newspaper  appeared  on  Good  Friday  with  a 
black  border,  in  memory  of  the  death  of  Christ :  the  vignette- 
title  was  a  sarcophagus  with  a  weeping  willow,  and  above  it 


1 88  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

was  a  poem  on  the  Passion  by  Lutzos.  The  festival  itself  be- 
gan that  evening.  I  went  to  the  principal  church ;  it  was 
splendidly  illuminated  and  completely  full:  before  the  altar 
stood  a  glass  coffin,  fastened  with  silver  plates.  The  coffin 
contained  fresh  roses,  intended  to  represent  the  dead  Saviour. 
A  strange  humming  of  voices  from  the  praying  congregation 
sounded  through  the  house  of  God  !  Priests,  in  parti-colored 
vestments,  and  bishops,  came  and  went  before  the  altar  where 
they  read  the  prayers.  At  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  sacred 
music  began,  and  the  procession  started  from  the  church 
through  the  chief  street,  to  the  palace.  I  saw  the  slowly 
moving  procession  conveniently  from  my  window  ;  it  was  one 
of  the  most  solemn  I  have  ever  seen.  It  was  a  glittering 
starlight  night,  so  mild  and  calm  !  Every  spectator  in  the 
balconies  and  open  windows  stood  with  a  burning  candle  in 
his  hand.  The  music  ascended  to  us  from  the  side-street  j 
the  smell  of  incense  filled  the  air.  Mournful  music  proceeded 
from  the  military  bands  as  though  the  people  carried  their 
King  to  his  grave.  The  coffin  containing  the  fresh  red  roses 
was  borne  along,  surrounded  by  the  priests  ;  over  it  hung  a 
long  red  mourning  veil  which  was  held  by  the  chief  states- 
men and  higher  officers  of  the  kingdom.  A  crowd  of  these 
officers,  and  then  the  great  mass  of  people,  all,  as  I  have  said, 
with  burning  candles,  concluded  the  procession.  There  was 
a  stillness,  an  apparent  sorrow  or  devotion,  which  worked  its 
effect  upon  every  mind.  The  Bishop  made  a  short  speech 
outside  the  palace  where  the  King  and  Queen  stood,  and  then 
the  King  kissed  the  holy  Bible.  During  the  whole  ceremony 
there  was  a  monotonous  ringing  of  bells,  always  two  strokes 
and  then  a  short  pause ;  day  and  night  the  church  was  filled 
with  people.  The  King,  the  Queen,  and  the  whole  court 
were  there  on  the  midnight  before  Easter  Day :  the  priests 
stood  praying  and  mourning  around  the  flower-filled  coffin  ; 
the  whole  congregation  prayed  in  silence.  The  clock  struck 
twelve,  and  at  the  same  moment  the  Bishop  stepped  forth,  and 
said :  "  Christ  is  risen  !  "  "  Christ  is  risen ! "  burst  from  every 
tongue.  Kettle-drums  and  trumpets  sent  forth  their  strains  j 
the  music  played  the  liveliest  dances  !  The  whole  people  fell 
on  each  other's  necks,  kissed,  and  joyously  cried,  "  Christ 


THE   COURT  IN  ATHENS.  189 

is  risen  !  "  Shot  after  shot  was  heard  outside  ;  rockets  darted 
into  the  air,  torches  were  lighted,  men  and  young  lads,  each 
with  a  candle  in  his  hand,  danced  in  a  long  row  through  the 
city.  The  women  kindled  fires,  slaughtered  lambs,  and  roasted 
them  in  the  streets.  Little  children,  who  had  all  got  new  fez 
and  new  red  shoes,  danced  in  their  shirts  around  the  fires, 
kissed  each  other,  and  exclaimed  like  their  parents,  "  Christ 
is  risen  !  "  O,  I  could  have  pressed  each  of  these  children 
to  my  heart  and  exulted  with  them.  "  Christ  is  risen  ! "  It 
was  touching,  elevating,  and  beautiful. 

It  may  be  said  that  the  whole  was  a  ceremony  ;  and  it  may 
be  added,  certainly  with  some  truth,  that  their  rejoicings  ex- 
pressed the  satisfaction  of  the  people  that  the  rigorous  fast 
was  over,  and  that  now  they  could  eat  their  lamb,  and  drink 
their  wine:  well,  admit  that  the  fact  was  so,  still  I  dare 
venture  to  say  there  was  something  more ;  there  was  a  true,  a 
sincere  religious  jubilee.  Christ  was  in  their  thoughts,  as  on 
their  lips.  "  Christ  is  risen  !  "  was  the  mutual  assurance,  made 
as  though  it  were  no  by-gone  event ;  no,  it  was  as  if  it  had 
taken  place  on  that  night,  and  in  this  land.  It  was  as  if  the 
assurance  had  reached  their  ears  at  that  moment,  and  for  the 
first  time. 

There  were  music  and  dancing  everywhere  in  the  capital, 
and  in  every  little  town  throughout  the  kingdom.  All  labor 
was  suspended,  every  one  thought  only  of  pleasure ;  there 
were  dancing  and  mirth  near  Theseus's  Temple  and  under 
Zeus's  marble  columns.  The  mandolin  twanged,  the  old 
joined  in  the  song ;  and  during  the  general  joy  the  words  of 
welcome  and  leave-taking  were  :  "  Christ  is  risen  1 " 


XII. 

THE    COURT  IN  ATHENS. 

IT  was  from  the  olive  grove  on  the  way  from  Eleusis,  that 
King  Otho  saw  the  Acropolis  and  his  royal  city  of  Athens  for 
the  first  time.  Then  Athens  was  almost  a  heap  of  rubbish, 
with  a  few  wretched  clay  huts  and  some  wood  and  brick 


190  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

houses ;  a  couple  of  these  connected  with  a  sort  of  pleasure 
garden,  constituted  his  palace,  and  now  serves  for  it  occasion- 
ally until  the  new  marble  palace  is  completed. 

It  is  an  extremely  modest  building  that  the  King  occupies  ; 
it  would,  in  any  other  country  in  Europe,  be  taken  for  a  pri- 
vate gentleman's  summer  villa  ;  a  grass  plot,  ornamented  with 
a  few  shrubs,  lies  before  it,  and  there  the  body-guard  draws  up 
daily,  the  band  playing  airs  from  "  Masaniello,"  "  Elisir 
d'Amore,"  or  "  Scaramouch,"  etc.,  and  the  Greek  nursery  girls 
dance  the  little  children  in  their  arms  to  the  merry  tunes. 

The  young  and  amiable  Queen  is  said  to  have  been  edu 
cated  in  a  most  domestic  manner  in  her  home  in  Oldenburg. 
She  entered  the  frugal  palace  with  a  spirit  of  contentment,  and 
the  people  greeted  her  with  shouts  and  welcome.  They  told 
me  that  all  the  streets  were  strewn  with  roses  on  her  arrival, 
and  that  she  had  a  bouquet  herself  of  still  rarer,  and  therefore 
more  beautiful  flowers.  Potatoes  had  then  been  just  intro- 
duced into  Greece,  and  they  had  begun  to  use  them.  The 
blossom  on  the  tops  of  the  potatoes  appeared  to  the  Greeks 
as  the  rarest  and  prettiest  flower  they  knew  ;  and  therefore 
they  brought  the  Queen,  who  came  from  Oldenburg,  a  bouquet 
of  potato  flowers  ! 

The  King  is  of  the  Roman  Catholic  religion,  the  Queen  of 
the  Lutheran,  and  the  children  who  may  be  born  to  them  are 
to  be  Greek  Catholic.  I  believe  that  the  young  royal  pair 
are  beloved  by  the  nation,  for  I  have  heard  several  Greeks 
mention  their  names  with  affectionate  enthusiasm.  And  they 
merit  it ;  a  royal  pair  so  young,  and  so  amiable.  It  is  no 
happiness  to  reign  in  Greece.  How  much  have  they  not  re- 
signed by  living  here  ! 

How  many  troubles  must  inevitably  touch  the  King's  heart 
for  this  people,  and  this  land's  sake  !  He  who  reigns  alone 
in  a  devastated  classic  land,  rich  in  noble  monuments ;  alone 
with  a  people  —  well  —  I  know  them  too  little  to  pronounce 
upon  them  —  but  I  love  not  this  race.  The  Turks  pleased 
me  far  better ;  they  were  honorable  and  good-natured. 

God  grant  the  noble  King  Otho  constancy  and  persever- 
ance. 

The  King  and  Queen  travel  about  the  country  annually 


THE   COURT  IN  ATHENS. 

and  are  everywhere  received  with  enthusiasm.  The  people 
come  from  a  great  distance  with  complaints  and  petitions  ;  the 
young  King  listens  to  all,  and  has  their  case  examined  into, 
so  that  these  journeys  often  produce  much  good ;  but  they 
are  in  themselves  not  so  convenient,  though  everything  is  done 
to  mitigate  the  annoyances  with  which  every  journey  in  Greece 
is  filled.  Servants  are  sent  on  before ;  tents  are  erected  where 
they  can  pass  the  night ;  the  tables  are  found  laid  out  amongst 
the  wild  rocks ;  the  champagne  foams,  and  shepherds  and 
shepherdesses  dance  on  the  plain  outside  the  tent,  whilst  the 
evening  sun  shines  on  the  solitary  marble  column  and  the 
high  mountains.  There  is  the  decoration  of  nature,  with  a 
ballet  which  the  classic  scene  alone,  where  the  gods  once  ap- 
peared, can  furnish;  but  many  disagreeable  circumstances 
frequently  happen ;  many  painful  occasions  arise.  I  will  give 
an  instance. 

Last  year  the  royal  party  reached  a  small  village  where,  the 
night  before  their  arrival,  fourteen  robbers  had  been  com- 
mitting depredations.  When  the  King  heard  of  this,  he 
immediately  set  out  after  them,  with  the  whole  of  his  little 
life-guard.  The  Queen,  her  ladies,  and  a  few  gentlemen  re- 
mained behind,  in  anxious  expectation  as  to  the  result.  The 
King,  however,  did  not  come  up  with  any  of  the  robbers  ;  but 
some  of  the  peasants  of  the  village  were  more  successful,  suc- 
ceeding in  capturing  several  the  following  night,  with  whom 
they  made  short  work,  for  they  cut  their  heads  off,  and  came 
running  with  them  the  next  morning  to  the  royal  tent. 

The  King  had,  up  to  the  time  of  my  departure,  only  signed 
one  warrant  of  execution,  and  this  was  for  a  well-known  and 
dangerous  robber.  The  Greeks,  who  themselves  think  noth- 
ing of  cutting  off  the  head  of  such  a  fellow,  cannot  understand 
how  the  law  should  demand  the  sacrifice  of  life,  an  example 
of  which  was  given  me,  in  relation  to  the  execution  of  the 
aforesaid  robber,  which  took  place  the  year  before.  The  gov- 
ernment was  obliged  to  write  to  Malta  for  an  executioner,  for 
no  Greek  could  be  found  to  undertake  the  office. 

The  robber  was  led  out  to  the  olive  grove,  accompanied  by 
a  guard  of  soldiers,  and  a  numerous  mass  of  the  populace  ;  but 
when  he  had  been  brought  there,  and  the  German  soldiers  had 


102  A   POETS  BAZAAR. 

formed  a  circle  around  him,  he  protested  against  the  execu- 
tion. "  It  was  something,"  he  said,  "  that  they  were  not  used 
to  here ! "  and  began  to  wrestle  with  the  executioner.  It  is 
said  to  have  been  terrible  to  look  upon :  the  combat  lasted 
about  two  hours,  and  the  soldiers  durst  not  venture  to  interfere 
between  them.  "  We  must  take  care  that  he  does  not  es- 
cape," said  they ;  "  that  is  our  duty."  The  executioner  had 
nearly  lost  his  head  in  this  conflict.  The  robber  at  length 
sank  exhausted  and  wounded  to  the  ground,  where  he  received 
his  death-blow.  The  executioner  is  said  to  have  been  secretly 
murdered  afterward.  I,  however,  only  tell  the  story  as  it  was 
told  to  me  in  Athens. 

During  my  stay,  I  had  the  honor  of  being  presented  to  the 
King  and  Queen,  who  both  showed  me  a  kindness  and  favor, 
which,  in  connection  with  the  inward  prepossession  I  had  felt 
for  the  royal  pair  in  that  new,  flourishing  Greece,  made  the 
impression  of  both  indelible  in  my  heart. 

I  regard  it  as  a  hard  fate  to  reign  at  this  moment  in  Greece  ; 
and  doubly  hard  for  a  young  prince  whose  heart  feels  warmly 
for  his  kingdom  and  his  people. 

The  apartments  in  the  palace  are  small  but  comfortable, 
and  one  feels  at  ease  there.  The  King  and  Queen  received 
me  in  company.  He  was  dressed  in  the  Greek  costume,  and 
she  in  a  Prankish  suit  of  mourning,  a  near  relative  of  hers  be- 
ing just  then  dead.  The  King  appears  very  young,  but  some- 
what pale  and  suffering ;  he  has  lively  eyes,  and  there  is  a 
very  mild  and  amiable  expression  in  his  features.  Our  con- 
versation was  about  Greece,  its  climate,  monuments,  and 
beauty  ;  and  I  stated  that  I  found  the  Greek  mountains  much 
more  beautiful  in  form  and  color  than  the  Italian.  They  ap- 
peared to  have  made  the  same  impression  on  the  King,  who 
talked  with  vivacity  and  spirit. 

I  expressed  my  opinion  that  it  must  be  extremely  interesting 
to  him  to  see  Athens  growing  up,  as  it  were,  before  his  eyes  ; 
for  the  stranger  here,  every  few  weeks,  perceives  an  enlarge- 
ment of  the  city.  He  asked  me  what  impression  the  town  of 
Syra  and  its  harbor  had  made  on  me,  and  seemed  to  be  glad 
lo  hear  of  the  activity  and  the  number  of  vessels  I  had  found 
there. 


PROKESCH-  OS  TEN.  1 9  3 

The  Queen  is  young  and  handsome ;  she  has  an  aspect  of 
mildness  and  wisdom.  She  spoke  most  of  my  intended  voy- 
age to  Constantinople,  and  of  the  passage  of  the  Danube, 
which  appeared  to  her  to  be  long,  and  very  troublesome. 

It  is  a  fine  sight  to  see  the  King  and  Queen,  both  young 
and  animated,  surrounded  by  their  ladies  and  gentlemen,  rid- 
ing in  Greek  costume  along  the  road  over  the  heath.  The 
eye  easily  recognizes  the  two  chief  figures  in  the  picture ;  but 
still  a  third  is  prominent  —  it  is  a  young  female  on  horseback 
—  we  already  know  her  :  it  is  the  hero,  Marco  Bozzaris'  daugh- 
ter, the  Queen's  maid  of  honor.  With  the  red  fez  on  her  jet- 
black  hair,  she  follows  her  young  Queen  like  the  beautiful 
genius  of  Greece  ;  her  long,  dark  eyelashes  are  set  like  silken 
fringes  over  her  fiery  eyes.  She  is  beautiful  as  she  rides  on 
her  noble  horse,  and  she  is  beautiful  when  she  tarries  so  that 
we  can  fully  regard  her  face. 

I  was  presented  to  her  one  evening  at  the  residence  of  Frau 
Pluskov,  the  Queen's  first  lady  of  honor.  I  only  heard  her 
speak  Greek  and  Italian.  Amongst  the  many  different  pic- 
tures that  my  memory  has  brought  from  Greece,  Marco  Boz- 
zaris' daughter  is  the  beauteous  ideal  of  the  daughters  of  that 
land. 


XIII. 

PROKESCH-OSTEN. 

AMONGST  the  diplomatists  at  the  court  of  Athens,  the  Aus- 
trian Minister,  Prokesch-Osten  was  the  most  interesting.  I 
had  read  his  "  Travels  in  the  Holy  Land,"  and  some  of  his 
beautiful  oriental  poems  :  he  became  doubly  dear  and  inter- 
esting to  me  by  personal  acquaintance,  and  all  the  kindness 
and  attention  he  showed  me.  Anton  Prokesch  was  born  on 
his  father's  estate  in  Gratz  on  the  loth  of  December,  1795  > 
and  when  a  boy  distinguished  himself  by  his  dexterity  in  swim 
ming  and  skating.  In  1813  he  fought  for  his  native  land  ; 
afterward  was  appointed  Professor  of  Mathematics  at  the  Col- 
lege for  Cadets  in  Olmutz ;  was  subsequently  Adjutant  to 
Prince  Schwartzenburg,  and  by  his  spirited  military  writings 
13 


194 


POET'S  BAZAAR. 


»oon  became  the  subject  of  much  interest  and  attention.  As 
Lieutenant-colonel  in  the  staff,  he  arrived  at  Trieste,  where 
the  sight  of  the  sea  awoke  his  desire  to  travel  :  the  Greek  na- 
tion was  the  one  for  which  he  felt  most  interest.  He  went  to 
Greece,  Asia  Minor,  and  Constantinople,  where  he  effected 
much  good  for  the  Austrian  trade  in  the  Levant  After  hav- 
ing again  travelled  through  Greece  and  the  islands,  he  stayed 
one  winter  in  Constantinople,  and  then  went  over  Asia  Minor 
to  Egypt  and  Nubia,  where  he  connected  himself  with  Me- 
hemet  Ali.  On  his  return  home  he  took  Smyrna  in  his  way. 
He  acted  with  equally  as  much  prudence  as  severity  against 
the  powerful  mass  of  pirates  that  infested  the  whole  Mediter- 
ranean. In  1828,  during  a  visit  to  Capo  d'Istria  in  Paros,  he 
effected  an  exchange  of  Greek  and  Arabian  prisoners.  The 
year  after,  we  see  him  in  Palestine  with  the  Paha  of  St.  Jean 
d'Acre,  a  man  who  is  equally  well-known  for  his  peculiar- 
ities, as  by  his  firm  will  and  austerity:  he  concluded  a  treaty 
with  him  in  favor  of  the  Christians  in  Palestine  and  Galilee. 

After  the  Greeks  became  free,  Prokesch  was  recalled  to 
Vienna.  The  Emperor  raised  him  to  the  rank  of  nobility, 
and,  as  he  had  gained  his  knightly  spurs  in  the  East,  he  gave 
him  the  surname  of  "  Osten."  In  1822,  he  lived  in  Rome, 
where  he  was  appointed  Austrian  Ambassador  ;  he  now  fills 
the  same  post  in  the  capital  of  Greece. 

One  of  the  furthermost  buildings  in  Athens,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Parnassus,  is  a  simple  but  elegantly  arranged  villa. 
The  glass  door  opens  ;  we  turn  our  backs  to  the  extended 
heath  and  the  high  mountains,  and  on  seeing  the  polished, 
carpeted  stairs,  we  think  we  are  at  a  summer  residence  by 
the  Danube's  imperial  city.  This  belief  almost  changes  into 
certainty  when  we  are  ushered  into  the  tastefully  decorated 
rooms,  and  see  rococo  furniture,  modern  rocking-chairs,  mag- 
nificent mirrors,  and  paintings.  An  amiable  host  and  hostess 
greet  us  in  German.  We  are  in  the  presence  of  Prokesch- 
Osten  and  his  talented  lady.  There  is  nothing  here  to  remind 
us  that  Athens  is  in  its  early  growth.  This  villa  may  rank 
with  those  of  Naples,  Vienna,  and  Copenhagen. 

Prokesch-Osten  is  a  handsome,  powerful  man,  with  dark, 
repressive  eyes.  He  is  an  excellent  lecturer.  When  I  was 


PROKESCH-  OS  TEN. 


'95 


Introduced  into  his  house  for  the  first  time,  he  was  requested 
by  the  company,  after  dinner,  to  read  one  of  his  poems.  He 
promised  to  comply  ;  but  he  first  took  a  volume  of  Chamisso's 
poems,  and  read  those  of  mine  which  Chamisso  has  trans- 
lated ;  he  read  them  with  such  effect  that  they  sounded  like 
music,  and  the  imagery  in  each  became  visible.  Read  as  they 
were,  they  could  not  fail  of  pleasing.  I  was,  on  account  of 
this  reading  of  my  poems,  presented  in  the  handsomest  man- 
ner to  those  to  whom  I  was  an  entire  stranger  in  that  circle. 

Of  his  oriental  poems  there  was  one,  composed  in  June, 
1826,  as  he  rode  over  Mount  Ida,  which  his  dramatic  style  01 
reading  particularly  recommended  to  my  liking.  On  my  de- 
parture from  Athens  he  gave  me  a  copy  of  it,  and  I  will  insert 
it  here :  — 

"  Den  Sabel  zur  seite,  Geschoss  in  der  Hand 
DurchstreiP  ich  mil  frohlichen  Muthe  das  Land. 
Wohl  hausst  auf  dem  waldigen  Ida  die  Schaar 
WUdharzige  Rauber  voll  Trotz  in  Gefahr, 
Mit  blinkenden  Waffen  und  wieherndem  Ross 
Mit  Herden  und  Weibern  und  dienendem  Tross. 

"  Sie  senden  die  Blicke  weit  iiber  die  Flur, 
Erspah'n  in  der  Feme  des  Wanderers  Spur, 
Behorchen  der  edlen  Kamehle  Gelaut, 
Sind  immer  zu  Handen  so  morgen  als  heut  — 
Sie  lauschen  am  Felsen,  sie  lauschen  im  Wald, 
Und  treiben  das  alteste  Handwerk,  Gewalt. 

"  Nur  muthig  und  vorwarts  !     S'ist  jedvedem  Land 
So  mancherlei  eigen  —  dem  Weiber  und  Sand, 
Dem  anderen  hohe  Cypressen  und  Wein, 
Es  muss  auch  dem  Ida  sein  Eigenes  seyn, 
Homeros  und  Rauber  und  pfadloser  Wald, 
Und  erzreicher  Felsen  erhabne  Gestalt !  " 

During  the  reading,  it  appeared  to  me  that  I  myself  hur- 
ried on  through  the  steep  mountains.  I  saw  him  armed  with 
sabre  and  pistols,  and  with  the  same  fiery  look  with  which  he 
recited  his  description.  The  bandit  troop  peeped  forth  from 
the  mountain-pass  ;  the  camels'  bells  rang,  and  all  was  again 
silent  in  that  great,  wild,  pathless  solitude. 

I  owe  to  Prokesch,  not  only  many  pleasant  and  entertain- 


196  A  POET'S  BAZAAR. 

ing  hours  during  my  stay  in  Athens,  but  also  a  friendly  re- 
ception at  Constantinople,  and  hospitality  there,  of  which  1 
shall  afterward  speak.  He  and  his  lady  seemed  to  be  fond  of 
my  "  Eventyr  "  ("  Tales  and  Adventures  for  Youth  ")  in  par- 
ticular, and  begged  me  to  write  more  soon.  These  pages, 
should  they  ever  meet  theif  eyes,  must  tell  that,  in  my  own 
life's  adventures,  the  hours  that  I  passed  with  them  form  one 
of  the  chapters  I  find  most  interesting  —  only  that  it  seems 
far  too  short 


XIV. 

A  SHORT  JOURNEY. 

DURING  the  fine  weather  we  made  an  excursion  to  the  mar- 
ble quarries  in  Pentelicon.  From  the  desert  heath,  at  the 
foot  of  Lycabettus,  and  out  to  the  mountains,  the  road  is  full 
of  incident  Even  over  this  short  extent,  a  painter  might  col- 
lect a  whole  book  of  interesting  sketches. 

One  of  the  first  must  be  the  picture  of  a  khan  or  inn,  as 
we  saw  it,  in  the  little  village  of  Kalandri.  The  fire-place 
was  in  a  corner  of  the  floor ;  the  walls  were  decorated  with 
shelves,  on  which  stood  wine  and  eatables,  fruit  and  articles 
of  trade  ;  but  from  all  the  shelves  long  stripes  of  gold  and  sil- 
ver paper  fluttered  in  the  breeze  like  fringes.  There  were  two 
musical  fellows ;  the  one  beat  a  drum,  and  the  other  played  the 
flute  ;  six  others  danced  in  a  row,  —  a  gray-haired  man  was 
the  leader,  and  he  made  the  most  singular  movements.  They 
danced  three  times  round  the  room,  then  out  of  the  house,  and 
down  the  road,  where  a  group  of  Greek  women,  in  their  pic- 
turesque dresses,  looked  on.  A  couple  of  the  youngest  girls 
had  violet-colored  velvet  jackets  ;  and  their  beautiful  dark 
plaited  hair  was  laid  like  a  border  round  the  little  red  fez. 
The  sun  shone  on  the  women,  so  that  they  had  to  hold  their 
hands  before  their  eyes  to  see  the  dancers.  It  was  a  charm- 
ing picture. 

Wild  olive,  pear,  and  almond-trees  formed  beautiful  groups 
to  sketch.  As  a  foreground  to  one  of  these  pictures,  should 
be  placed  our  expedition,  the  pedestrians  as  well  as  the  eques 


A  SHORT  JOURNEY.  197 

trians,  and  amongst  the  last  were  two  tortoises.  Every  mo- 
ment we  saw  one  of  these  animals  lying  still,  like  a  block  of 
stone,  or  creeping  on  at  snail's  pace  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
I  would  not  have  them  driven  over ;  nay,  I  thought  that  we 
ought  to  help  them  forward  a  little  in  the  world,  and  so  I  set 
them  up  with  the  coachman.  They  drove  with  us  to  the  Pen- 
telicon,  and  perhaps  they  now  sun  themselves  on  the  plains 
of  Marathon.  There  was  a  young  tortoise,  no  larger  than  a 
watch.  I  laid  many  plans  for  it,  and  took  it  likewise  with 
me  ;  but,  as  it  afterward  occurred  to  me  that  it  would  suffer 
hunger  and  thirst  the  further  I  travelled,  I  took  it  into  a  wood 
of  oleander-trees,  where  the  rays  of  the  sun  played  freely  ; 
and  it  was  right  glad  of  its  liberty  ! 

The  cloister  of  Pentelis  stands  here  on  the  side  of  the 
mountain,  as  in  a  waste  and  deserted  garden.  At  first  sight,  it 
has  the  appearance  of  a  large,  neglected  dairy  farm  :  the  walls 
are  riven,  and  grown  over  with  wild  plants,  like  the  walls  of 
Daphne.  The  only  thing  that  intimated  life  and  motion  was 
a  flock  of  poultry,  hopping  about  on  the  heaps  of  rubbish  in 
the  foremost  yard.  Outside  the  little  church,  the  door  of 
which  stood  open,  so  that  the  sun  shone  in  on  the  burning 
lamps,  stood  a  large  laurel-tree.  It  was  in  full  bloom,  so  rich, 
so  odorous;  and  I  was  so  happy!  One 'of  the  priests  saw 
my  enthusiasm,  and  immediately  broke  off  a  branch  which  he 
presented  to  me.  I  have  divided  it  at  home,  in  Denmark,  be- 
tween Thorwaldsen's  bust  and  Oehlenschlager's  portrait.1 

Outside  the  cloister,  down  the  mountain,  there  lay,  between 
the  green,  wood-covered  hills,  a  charming  valley,  with  a  fresh- 
running  rivulet,  tall  poplars,  and  blooming  fruit-trees.  The 
mountains  of  Morea  rose  in  the  horizon ;  the  one  row  far 
above  the  other  in  rich  tones  of  color.  Our  horses  grazed  in 
the  green  meadow.  A  large  fire  was  kindled,  and  a  whole 
lamb  placed  on  the  spit,  which  was  turned  by  a  pretty  Greek 
boy.  Everything  was  prepared  for  our  meal  in  the  green  fields. 

1  When  I  visited  the  place,  near  Athens,  they  call  Socrates'  prison,  —  a 
chamber  cut  in  the  side  of  the  rock,  at  Areopagus,  —  my  thoughts  were 
with  the  great  poet  of  the  North,  the  only  one  who,  from  the  Danish  stage, 
has  reminded  the  public  of  Socrates.  Close  by  the  entrance  to  the  cavern 
stood  a  beautiful  red  flower.  I  plucked  it,  and  sent  it  in  a  letter  with  a 
greeting  to  Oehlenschiager  in  Denmark. 


ig8  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

But  we  must  first  see  the  marble  quarries  of  the  Pentelicon. 
The  road  lay  through  thickets  and  bushes,  where  a  few  little 
boys  tended  the  cattle  and  sheep  belonging  to  the  cloister. 
Large  tortoises  crawled  round  about ;  one  was  lying  sprawling 
on  its  back  in  the  sun,  and  I  was  its  unknown  benefactor. 

It  was  a  troublesome  excursion,  continually  upward,  over 
large  blocks  of  stone,  amongst  thorns  and  brambles ;  but  still  we 
must  see  the  marble  quarries  ;  we  must  ascend  the  Pentelicon. 

A  herdsman  was  there  in  his  Greek  woolen  dress  ;  he 
leaned  on  his  long  staff,  and  looked  down  into  the  gray  val- 
ley, where  a  large  tumulus  stood  in  wildest  solitude :  the  sea 
and  the  mountains  of  Eubcea  bounded  the  horizon.  A  bluish 
smoke  curled  up  from  a  cabin  below,  which  could  scarcely  be 
perceived.  The  tumulus,  which  appeared  like  a  small  island 
amongst  reeds,  has  a  fame  as  great  as  any  in  the  world : 
and  whose  is  this  grave  ?  We  name  the  plain,  and  the  tumulus 
is  known.  It  is  the  plain  of  Marathon. 


XV. 
FRIENDSHIP'S  COVENANT. 

A  NOVEL. 

WE  have  lately  accomplished  a  little  journey,  and  already 
begin  to  desire  a  greater  one.  Where  to  ?  To  Sparta,  to  My- 
cenae, to  Delphi  1  There  are  hundreds  of  places  that  the  heart 
throbs  with  a  desire  to  visit.  It  must  be  on  horseback  up 
mountain  paths  ;  away  over  copse  and  bush  ;  the  single  travel- 
ler goes  forth  like  a  whole  caravan.  He  rides  before  with  his 
agojal,  a  pack-horse  bears  his  portmanteau,  tent,  and  provision, 
few  gensdarmes  follow  after  for  his  protection.  No  inn  with 
well-made  bed  awaits  him  after  the  fatiguing  day's  journey  ; 
the  tent  is  often  his  roof  in  the  wild  and  extended  solitude  of 
nature  ;  the  agojal  cooks  a  pilaf '  for  his  evening  meal.  Thou- 
sands of  gnats  buzz  about  the  little  tent  ;  it  is  a  miserable 
night,  and  to-morrow  the  road  lies  over  rapid  and  swollen  rivers. 
3it  fast  on  thy  horse,  and  take  care  thou  art  not  carried  away. 
1  A  pilaf  is  composed  of  poultry,  rice,  and  curry. 


FRIENDSHIP'S  COVENANT. 


199 


What  reward  is  there  for  these  toils?  The  greatest!  the 
richest !  Nature  reveals  herself  here  in  all  her  greatness ; 
every  spot  is  historical ;  the  eye  and  the  mind  alike  are  fully 
gratified.  The  poet  can  sing  of  it ;  the  painter  portray  it  in 
richest  beauty  ;  but  the  odor  of  reality,  which  eternally  forces 
its  way,  and  rests  in  the  thoughts  of  the  spectator,  they  have 
not  the  power  to  represent. 

I  have  endeavored  to  depist  in  many  small  sketches  one 
little  extent  of  country  —  Athens  and  its  environs ;  and  yet 
how  colorless  is  the  picture  !  How  poorly  does  it  indicate 
Greece,  that  sorrowing  genius  of  beauty,  whose  greatness  and 
affliction  the  stranger  never  forgets ! 

The  solitary  herdsman  on  the  rock,  by  a  simple  story  of  one 
of  the  events  of  his  life,  might  perhaps,  open  thy  eyes  to  a 
view  of  the  land  of  the  East,  by  a  few  traits,  better  than  I 
with  my  pictures. 

Then  let  him  speak,  says  my  Muse.  Well,  the  herdsman  on 
the  mountain  there  shall  tell  us  about  a  custom,  a  fine  and 
peculiar  custom  :  it  is  ';  Friendship's  Covenant." 

"  Our  house  was  stuck  together  with  clay,  but  the  door- 
posts were  fluted  marble  columns,  found  where  the  house  was 
built.  The  roof  descended  almost  to  the  ground  ;  it  was  darl., 
brown,  and  ugly  ;  but  when  it  was  built  the  blooming  oleander, 
and  the  fresh  laurel  branches  were  brought  from  behind  the 
mountain.  It  was  narrow  and  confined  about  our  house ;  the 
rocks  stood  steep  upward,  and  presented  a  dark,  bare  color. 
Clouds  often  hung  on  the  top  of  them,  like  living  forms  clad 
in  white.  I  never  heard  a  song-bird  here  ;  the  men  never 
danced  here  to  the  tones  of  the  bagpipe ;  but  the  place  was 
sacred  from  the  times  of  old  ;  the  name  itself  reminds  us 
thereof — it  is  called  Delphi ! 

"  The  dark,  sombre  mountains  lay  covered  with  snow ;  the 
topmost,  which  shone  longest  in  the  red  evening  sun,  was 
Parnassus.  The  brook  near  our  house  streamed  down  from 
thence,  and  was  also  once  holy.  Now  the  ass  muddies  it  with 
his  feet ;  yet  the  stream  runs  strong,  and  again  becomes  clear. 
How  well  I  remember  every  spot  and  its  deep,  holy  solitude ! 
The  fire  was  kindled  in  the  middle  of  the  cabin,  and,  when 
the  hot  ashes  lay  high  and  glowing,  the  bread  was  baked  in 


2OO  ^   POETS  BAZAAR. 

them.  When  the  snow  lay  around  our  hut,  so  that  it  was  al 
most  hidden,  my  mother  then  seemed  happiest ;  she  then  held 
my  hand  between  her  hands,  kissed  my  brow,  and  sang  the 
songs  she  at  other  times  never  sang ;  for  the  Turks,  our  mas- 
ters, lik'ed  them  not ;  and  she  sang :  '  An  old  stag  sat  in  the 
low  pine  wood,  on  Olympus's  top  ;  its  eyes  were  heavy  with 
tears ;  yes,  it  wept  red,  green,  and  pale-blue  tears,  and  a  roe- 
buck came  past !  "  What  ails  thee,  that  thou  weepest  thus  ? 
even  red,  green,  and  pale- blue  tears?"  —  "The  Turk  has 
come  into  our  town  ;  he  has  wild  dogs  for  his  sport,  a  mighty 
pack !  " — "  I  will  chase  them  over  the  islands,"  said  the  young 
roebuck.  "  I  will  drive  them  over  the  islands  into  the  deep 
sea ! "  but  before  the  evening  came  on,  the  roebuck  was 
killed  ;  and  before  night  came,  the  stag  was  hunted  and  dead ! ' 

"  And  when  my  mother  sang  thus,  her  eyes  became  wet, 
and  there  sat  a  tear  in  the  long  eyelashes  ;  but  she  hid  it,  and 
turned  our  black  bread  in  the  ashes.  Then  I  clinched  my 
hand,  and  said,  '  We  will  slay  the  Turk ! '  but  she  repeated 
the  song :  ' "  I  will  chase  them  over  the  islands  into  the  deep 
sea ! "  but  before  evening  came  on,  the  roebuck  was  killed,  and 
before  night  came,  the  stag  was  hunted  and  dead ! ' 

We  had  been  alone  in  our  solitary  cabin  for  several  days  and 
nights,  when  my  father  came  home.  I  knew  he  brought  me 
mussel-shells  from  the  Bay  of  Lepanto,  or  some  such  thing  as 
a  sharp  and  shining  knife.  He  brought  us  a  child  that  time  ; 
«i  little  naked  girl,  whom  he  carried  under  his  sheepskin  cloak. 
She  was  wrapped  in  a  skin,  and  all  that  she  had  when  she  was 
loosened  from  it  in  my  mother's  lap,  were  three  silver  coins  fas- 
tened in  her  black  hair.  And  my  father  told  us  about  the  Turks 
who  had  killed  the  child's  parents.  He  told  us  so  much  that 
I  dreamt  about  it  the  whole  night.  My  father  himself  was 
wounded,  and  my  mother  bandaged  his  arm,  for  the  wound  was 
deep.  The  thick  sheepskin  cloak  was  frozen  stiff  with  blood. 

"  The  little  girl  was  to  be  my  sister.  She  was  so  beautiful, 
so  transparently  clear !  My  mother's  eyes  were  not  milder 
than  hers  !  Anastasia,  as  she  was  called,  should  be  my  sister , 
for  her  father  was  married  to  my  father  ;  married  after  an  old 
custom  which  we  still  retain.  They  had,  in  their  youth,  con 
tracted  brotherhood  together,  and  chosen  the  handsomest  and 


FRIENDSHIPS  COVENANT.  2OI 

most  virtuous  girl  in  the  neighborhood  to  join  their  hands  in 
the  covenant  of  friendship.  I  heard  often  about  this  rare  and 
beautiful  custom. 

"  The  little  girl  was  now  my  sister ;  she  sat  on  my  lap.  I 
brought  her  flowers,  and  feathers  from  the  birds  of  the  rock ;  we 
drank  together  the  waters  of  Parnassus  :  we  slept,  face  to  face, 
under  the  cabin's  laurel-covered  roof,  whilst  my  mother  still 
sang,  for  many  a  winter,  of  the  red,  the  green,  and  the  pale-blue 
tears.  But  I  could  not  yet  understand  that  it  was  my  own  peo- 
ple, whose  thousand  fold  sorrows  were  reflected  in  these  tears. 

"  One  day  there  came  three  Franks,  dressed  differently 
from  us  ;  they  had  their  beds  and  tents  on  horses  ;  and  more 
than  twenty  Turks,  all  with  sabres  and  muskets,  accompanied 
them,  for  they  were  the  Pasha's  friends,  and  had  letters  from 
him.  They  only  came  to  see  our  mountains  ;  to  ascend  Par- 
nassus, in  snow  and  clouds,  and  survey  the  dark,  steep,  and 
singular  rocks  around  our  hut. 

"  There  was  not  room  for  them  in  the  cabin,  nor  did  they 
like  the  smoke  which  passed  under  the  ceiling,  and  out  of  the 
low  doorway.  They  erected  their  tents  on  the  narrow  place 
outside  our  hut.  They  roasted  lambs  and  birds,  and  drank 
sweet,  strong  wine,  but  the  Turks  durst  not  drink  of  it. 

"  When  they  departed,  I  followed  them  part  of  the  way, 
and  my  little  sister  Anastasia  hung  on  my  back,  sewed  up  in 
a  goat  skin.  One  of  the  Franks  placed  me  against  a  rock, 
and  drew  me  and  her,  quite  like  nature.  As  we  appeared  on 
the  paper,  we  looked  like  one  single  being.  I  had  never 
thought  of  it,  but  Anastasia  and  I  were  as  one.  She  always 
lay  on  my  lap  or  hung  on  my  back  ;  and  if  I  dreamed,  she  was 
in  my  dreams. 

"  Two  nights  afterward  other  people  came  to  our  hut. 
They  were  armed  with  knives  and  guns.  They  were  Albani- 
ans ;  brave  men,  as  my  mother  said.  They  remained  there 
but  a  short  time.  My  sister  Anastasia  sat  on  the  lap  of  one. 
When  he  was  gone  she  had  two,  and  not  three  silver  coins 
in  her  hair.  They  rolled  tobacco  up  in  strips  of  paper  and 
smoked  it,  and  the  eldest  spoke  of  the  road  they  should  take, 
and  was  uncertain  about  it :  '  If  I  spit  upward,'  said  he,  '  it 
will  fall  in  my  face ;  if  I  spit  downward,  it  will  fall  on  my 


2O2  A  POET'S  BAZAAR. 

beard  !  But  a  way  must  be  chosen ! '  They  went,  and  my 
"ather  accompanied  them.  Shortly  after  we  heard  shots  fired 
n  rapid  succession :  then  there  came  a  party  of  soldiers  to 
ur  hut ;  they  took  my  mother,  me,  and  Anastasia.  They 
said  the  robbers  had  taken  refuge  with  us  ;  my  father  had 
accompanied  them,  and  therefore  we  must  away.  I  saw  the 
dead  bodies  of  the  robbers  ;  I  saw  my  father's  corpse,  and  I 
wept  till  I  fell  asleep.  When  I  awoke,  we  were  in  prison  ; 
but  the  chamber  was  not  more  wretched  than  that  in  our  own 
hut ;  and  I  got  onions  and  resinous  wine,  which  they  poured 
out  of  the  tarred  bag  ;  but  we  were  no  better  off  at  home. 

'•  How  long  we  were  imprisoned  I  know  not ;  but  many 
days  and  nights  passed  away.  When  we  were  set  at  liberty 
it  was  our  holy  Easter  festival,  and  I  bore  Anastasia  on  my 
back,  for  my  mother  was  ill ;  she  could  walk  but  slowly,  and 
it  was  long  before  we  reached  the  Bay  of  Lepanto. 

"  We  entered  a  church  which  glittered  with  images  on  the 
golden  ground;  they  were  angels  !  O,  so  beautiful!  But  I 
thought  that  our  little  Anastasia  was  just  as  pretty.  In  the 
middle  of  the  floor  stood  a  coffin,  filled  with  roses  ;  it  was  the 
Lord  Christ,  said  my  mother,  who  lay  there  like  beautiful 
flowers  !  And  the  priest  proclaimed  :  '  Christ  is  risen  ! ' 

"  All  the  people  kissed  each  other.  Every  one  held  a 
lighted  candle  in  his  hand.  I,  myself,  got  one,  and  little  Anas- 
tasia one.  The  bagpipes  sounded,  the  men  danced  hand  in 
hand  from  the  church,  outside  of  which  the  women  roasted 
Easter  lambs.  We  were  invited  to  eat.  I  sat  by  the  fire,  —  a 
a  boy,  older  than  myself,  threw  his  arms  around  my  neck, 
kissed  me,  and  said:  'Christ  is  risen!'  So  it  was  that 
Aphtanides  and  I  met  for  the  first  time. 

"  My  mother  could  make  fishing  nets ;  that  was  work  by 
which  she  gained  much  at  the  bay,  and  we  remained  for  a  long 
time  by  the  sea,  —  the  delightful  sea,  which  tasted  like  tears, 
and  in  its  color  reminded  us  of  the  weeping  stag's ;  some- 
times it  was  red,  then  green,  and  then  blue  again. 

"  Aphtanides  knew  how  to  steer  a  boat ;  and  I  sat  with  my 
little  Anastasia  in  the  boat,  which  floated  on  the  water  as  a 
cloud  sails  in  the  air.  When  the  sun  went  down,  the  mountains 
became  more  dark-blue,  the  one  range  peeped  over  the  other 


FRIENDSHIP'S  COVENANT. 


203 


and  in  the  distance  stood  Parnassus,  with  its  snowy-covered 
top,  shining  like  glowing  iron  in  the  evening  sun.  It  appeared 
as  if  the  light  came  from  within,  for  it  shone  so  long  in  the 
blue  glittering  air  after  the  sun  had  gone  down.  The  white 
sea-birds  struck  the  water's  surface  with  their  wings,  or  else  it 
was  as  still  as  at  Delphi  amongst  the  black  rocks.  I  lay  on  my 
back  in  the  boat ;  Anastasia  sat  on  my  breast,  and  the  stars 
above  us  shone  still  brighter  than  the  lamps  in  our  church. 
They  were  the  same  stars  and  they  hung  quite  in  the  same 
place  over  me  as  when  I  sat  outside  our  cabin  at  Delphi.  I  at 
last  thought  that  I  was  still  there  ;  then  there  was  a  splashing 
in  the  water,  and  the  boat  rocked.  I  screamed  aloud,  for  Anas- 
tasia had  fallen  into  the  water ;  but  Aphtanides  was  just  as 
quick  as  I,  and  he  soon  handed  her  to  me !  We  took  her 
clothes  off,  wrung  the  water  out,  and  then  dressed  her  again. 
Aphtanides  did  the  same  for  himself;  and  we  remained  on 
the  sea  until  their  clothes  were  dry  again,  and  no  one  knew 
the  fright  we  had  had  for  my  little  foster-sister,  in  whose  life 
Aphtanides  had  now  a  part. 

"  It  was  summer.  The  sun  burnt  so  hot  that  the  leaf-trees 
withered.  I  thought  of  our  cool  mountains,  and  of  the  fresh 
water  there  ;  my  mother  also  longed  for  them,  and  one  even- 
ing we  wandered  back  again.  How  still  and  silent  all  things 
were !  We  went  over  the  high  thyme,  which  still  spread  its 
scent  around,  though  the  sun  had  dried  its  leaves.  Not  a 
herdsman  did  we  meet,  not  a  cabin  did  we  pass ;  all  was  still 
and  solitary  ;  the  shooting-star  alone  said  that  there  was  life 
above  in  heaven.  I  know  not  if  it  was  the  clear  blue  air  it- 
self that  shed  a  light,  or  was  it  the  star's  rays  ?  we  saw  the 
outlines  of  all  the  mountains  so  distinctly.  My  mother  made 
a  fire,  and  roasted  the  onions  she  had  brought  with  her ;  and 
I  and  my  little  sister  slept  in  the  thyme  without  fear  of  the 
horrid  smidraki,1  from  whose  throat  the  flames  pour  forth  ; 
and  much  less  did  we  fear  the  wolf  and  jackal :  my  mother 
sat  with  us,  and  that  I  thought  was  enough. 

"  We  reached  our  old  home,  but  the  hut  was  a  heap  of  rub- 
bish, and  a  new  one  must  be  built.  A  few  women  assisted  my 

1  Greek  superstition  creates  this  monster  from  the  uncut  stomach  of  tba 
slaughtered  sheep,  which  is  cast  into  the  fields. 


2O4  ^   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

mother,  and  in  a  few  days  the  walls  were  built  up,  and  a  new 
roof  of  oleander  placed  over  them. 

"  My  mother  plaited  holsters  of  bark  and  skin  for  bottles. 
I  looked  after  the  priest's  l  little  herd.  Anastasia  and  the 
small  tortoises  were  my  playmates. 

"  One  day  we  had  a  visit  from  our  dear  Aphtanides,  who,  as 
he  said,  longed  so  much  to  see  us  ;  and  he  stayed  two  whole 
days  with  us. 

"  After  a  month  had  passed  he  came  again,  and  told  us  that 
he  was  going  with  a  ship  to  Patras  and  Corfu  :  he  could  not  go 
without  bidding  us  farewell,  and  he  brought  a  large  fish  with 
him  for  my  mother.  He  knew  how  to  tell  so  much,  not  alone 
about  the  fishermen  down  by  the  Bay  of  Lepanto,  but  about 
kings  and  heroes  who  had  once  reigned  in  Greece,  as  the 
Turks  do  now. 

"  I  have  seen  the  rose-tree  begin  to  bud,  and  in  days  and 
weeks  it  has  become  a  full-blown  flower  ;  it  became  so  be- 
fore I  began  to  think  about  it  How  large,  beautiful,  and 
blushing  it  was.  It  was  thus  also  with  Anastasia.  She  was  a 
charming,  full-grown  girl ;  I  a  strong  lad.  The  wolves'  skins 
on  my  mother's  and  Anastasia's  bed  I  had  myself  flayed  from 
the  animals  that  fell  under  my  gun. 

Years  had  passed,  when  one  evening  Aphtanides  came.  He 
was  slender  as  a  reed,  but  strong  and  brown.  He  kissed  us 
all,  and  told  us  about  the  great  sea,  of  Malta's  fortresses,  and 
of  Egypt's  strange  burial-places ;  it  sounded  so  strangely  — 
like  one  of  the  priest's  legends.  I  looked  up  to  him  with  a 
sort  of  reverence. 

"  '  How  much  you  know,'  said  I ;  '  how  well  you  can  relate 
things.' 

"  '  Yet,'  said  he,  '  you  once  told  me  the  prettiest  of  all  stories  ; 
you  have  told  me  what  has  never  gone  out  of  my  thoughts, 
the  beautiful  old  custom  of  the  covenant  of  friendship.  It 
is  a  custom  that  I  have  a  great  desire  to  follow.  Brother,  let 
us  two,  as  thine  and  Anastasia's  father  did,  go  to  the  church  ; 
the  handsomest  and  most  innocent  girl  is  Anastasia,  our  sister ; 
she  shall  bind  us  together.  None  have  nobler  customs  than 
we  Greeks.' 

1  A  peasant  who  can  read  is  often  the  priest,  and  is  called   "  Most  Holj 
Sir."    The  common  people  kiss  the  ground  when  they  meet  him. 


FRIENDSHIP'S  COVENANT.  205 

a  Anastasia  grew  red  as  the  fresh  rose-leaf,  and  my  mother 
kissed  Aphtanides. 

"  An  hour's  walk  from  our  hut,  there,  where  the  rocks  bear 
mould,  and  a  few  trees  cast  their  shade,  lay  the  little  church  ; 
a  silver  lamp  hung  before  the  altar. 

"  I  had  my  best  clothes  on  ;  the  white  fostanelles  folded 
richly  down  over  the  hips  ;  the  red  jacket  sat  tight  and  narrow  ; 
there  was  silver  in  the  tassel  on  my  fez,  and  in  my  belt  were 
knife  and  pistols.  Aphtanides  had  on  his  blue  dress,  such  as 
the  Greek  sailors  wear.  A  silver  plate  with  an  image  of  the 
Virgin  hung  on  his  breast,  and  his  sash  was  as  valuable  as 
those  which  only  the  rich  nobles  wear.  Every  one  saw  that 
we  two  were  about  to  celebrate  a  festival.  We  went  into  the 
little  solitary  church,  where  the  evening  sun  shone  through  the 
doorway  on  the  burning  lamps  and  the  variegated  images  on 
a  golden  ground.  We  knelt  on  the  steps  of  the  altar,  and 
Anastasia  placed  herself  before  us.  A  long  white  frock  hung 
loose  and  light  around  her  beautiful  limbs ;  her  white  neck 
and  bosom  were  covered  with  a  broad  chain  of  old  and  new 
coins,  which  formed  a  whole  collar  ;  her  black  hair  was  laid 
on  the  top  of  her  head  in  one  single  curl,  held  by  a  little  cap 
of  gold  and  silver  coins,  found  in  the  old  temples.  No  Greek 
girl  had  finer  ornaments.  Her  face  beamed ;  her  eyes  re- 
sembled two  stars. 

"  We  all  three  said  our  prayers  in  silence,  and  she  asked 
us  :  '  Will  you  be  friends  in  life  and  death  ?  We  answered  : 
*  Yes.'  '  Will  you  each,  whatever  may  happen,  remember  — 
My  brother  is  a  part  of  me,  my  secrets  are  his  secrets, 
my  happiness  or  fortune  is  his !  Sacrifice,  endurance  every- 
thing I  hold  for  my  own  soul  as  for  him  ? '  and  we  repeated 
our  '  Yes ; '  and  she  placed  our  hands  in  each  other,  kissed  us 
on  the  forehead,  and  we  again  prayed  silently.  The  priest 
ihen  stepped  forward  from  the  door  of  the  altar,  blessed  us  all 
three,  and  a  song  from  the  other  most  holy  men  sounded  from 
behind  the  altar  wall.  The  eternal  covenant  of  friendship  was 
concluded.  When  we  rose,  I  saw  my  mother  by  the  church 
door  weeping  deeply  and  inwardly. 

"  What  mirth  there  was  in  our  little  hut  and  by  the  fountains 
of  Delphi!  The  evening  before  Aphtanides  was  to  depart. 


2O6  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

he  and  I  sat  thoughtfully  on  the  slope  of  the  cliff ;  his  arm 
was  around  my  waist,  mine  around  his  neck ;  we  spoke  of  the 
necessities  and  distress  of  Greece,  of  men  who  could  be  de 
pended  on.  Each  thought  in  our  minds  was  clear  to  us  both  : 
then  I  seized  his  hand  :  — 

" '  One  thing  yet  thou  shalt  know  ;  one  that,  until  this  hour, 
only  God  and  I  know !  All  my  soul  is  love ;  it  is  a  love 
stronger  than  that  for  my  mother  and  for  thee.' 

" '  And  whom  dost  thou  love  ? '  asked  Aphtanides,  and  he 
grew  red  in  the  face  and  neck. 

" '  I  love  Anastasia,'  said  I.  His  hand  trembled  violently 
in  mine,  and  he  became  pale  as  a  corpse.  I  saw  it ;  I  under- 
stood it ;  and  I  believe  my  hand  also  trembled.  I  bent  toward 
him,  kissed  his  brow,  and  whispered,  '  I  have  never  told  her 
of  it ;  perhaps  she  does  not  love  me  !  Brother,  remember  I 
saw  her  daily  ;  she  has  grown  up  by  my  side,  grown  into  my 
soul ! ' 

" '  And  thine  she  shall  be  ! '  said  he.  '  Thine  —  I  cannot 
lie  to  thee,  nor  will  I  do  so !  I  also  love  her  !  But  to-morrow 
I  depart ;  we  shall  see  each  other  again  in  a  year  —  then  you 
will  be  married.  Is  it  not  so  ?  I  have  some  money  ;  it  is 
thine  !  Thou  must  take  it ;  thou  shalt  take  it ! '  We  wan- 
dered silently  over  the  rock  :  it  was  late  in  the  evening  when 
we  stood  in  my  mother's  cabin. 

"  Anastasia  held  the  lamp  toward  us  when  we  entered  ;  my 
mother  was  not  there.  Anastasia  looked  so  strangely  sorrow- 
ful at  Aphtanides  ! 

"  '  To-morrow  thou  wilt  leave  us ! '  said  she : '  how  it  grieves 
me!' 

" '  Grieves  thee ! '  said  he ;  and  I  thought  there  was  pain 
in  the  words,  great  as  my  own.  I  could  not  speak,  but  he 
took  her  hand  and  said,  '  Our  brother  there  loves  thee  ;  is  he 
dear  to  thee  ?  In  his  silence  is  his  love !  '  And  Anastasia 
trembled,  and  burst  into  tears  ;  then  I  saw  but  her,  thought 
only  of  her.  I  flung  my  arm  around  her  waist,  and  said, 
•  Yes,  I  love  thee  ! ' 

"  She  then  pressed  her  lips  to  mine  ;  her  hand  rested  on 
my  neck  ;  but  the  lamp  had  fallen  on  the  floor ;  and  it  was 
dark  around  us,  as  in  poor  dear  Aphtanidjs'  heart.  He  arose 


DEPARTURE  FROM  GREECE.  2OJ 

before  daylight,  kissed  us  all  in  farewell,  and  departed.  He 
had  given  my  mother  all  his  money  for  us.  Anastasia  was 
my  bride,  and  a  few  days  afterward  my  wife  !  " 


XVI. 

DEPARTURE   FROM   GREECE. 

I  LEFT  Athens  in  the  middle  of  the  forenoon  and  drove  to 
Piraeus,  although  the  French  steamer  Eurotas,  in  which  I  had 
taken  my  passage,  started  toward  evening.  Thus  time  re- 
mained for  a  short  ramble,  and  that  was  to  the  grave  of 
Themistocles,  which  I  had  once  before  visited. 

From  Piraeus  there  is  a  very  small  peninsula,  which  bounds 
the  eastern  side  of  the  bay  ;  near  it  is  the  new  quarantine, 
and  higher  up,  as  I  mentioned  before,  is  a  windmill.  The 
whole  ground  is  a  species  of  travertines,  and  round  about 
we  see  the  remains  of  the  old  walls.  Acanthus,  cypress 
bushes,  poor  grass,  and  mixed  red  flowers  grow  here,  where  a 
few  sheep  graze,  and  a  half-wild  dog,  with  a  ferocious  aspect 
and  terrible  howling,  darts  toward  every  stranger.  I  went 
round  the  peninsula  from  the  east  to  the  west  side. 

Close  by  the  shore,  toward  the  Bay  of  Piraeus,  there  stands 
a  poor  walled-up  monument,  exactly  like  a  square  chimney, 
on  which  is  placed  a  less,  and  on  that,  another  of  still  smaller 
dimensions  ;  in  this  last  one  there  is  a  square  marble  tablet 
as  large  as  a  common  sheet  of  paper,  on  which  is  inscribed,  — 

OAEKEITAI 
ONAYAPXO2 
ANAPEA2.  MIA 


1838. 

It  is  the  monument  that  was  placed  over  Miaulis  ;  but  his 
bones  are  said  to  have  been  secretly  carried  away  by  his  fam- 
ily. Close  by  the  hero's  grave  is  a  lesser  one,  but  there  is  no 
intimation  of  its  occupant  —  a  small  wooden  cross  without 
color  or  inscription  is  raised.  On  the  other  side  of  the  island, 


208  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

toward  the  Bay  of  Phalereus,  are  several  overthrown  columns, 
hewn  out  of  the  yellow  foundations  of  the  rock,  and  between 
these  columns  are  two  open  graves  quite  filled  with  sea  water : 

—  one  wave  rushed  in  after  the  other.      This  spot,  straight 
before  the  Bay  of  Salamis,  is  pointed  out  as  the  grave  of 
Themistocles.      The  two  extreme  points  of  this  little  penin- 
sula thus  bear  an  ancient  and  a  modern  hero's  grave,  —  The- 
mistocles  and   Miaulis ! l       These   are   two   historical   light- 
houses, erected  here  for  the  stranger  who  lands  in  Piraeus,  to 
engage  his  thoughts. 

The  waves  broke  in  a  white  foam  in  the  larger  bay  to  the 
right  —  the  Bay  of  Phalereus,  from  whence  Theseus  sailed 
forth  to  combat  against  the  Minotaur.  Here  Menelaus  em- 
barked —  over  these  waters,  and  surrounded  by  these  moun- 
tains which,  still  unchanged,  greeted  me.  They  went  to 
Ilium  !  the  same  way  lay  spread  before  me  ;  I  should  soon  see 
the  same  coasts,  the  plain  of  Troy,  and  Mount  Ida,  which 
adorns  itself  as  aforetime,  with  flowers  and  verdure ;  wraps 
itself  in  clouds  ;  covers  itself  with  snow,  and  then  looks 
sorrowfully  through  the  veil  on  the  tumulus  of  Achilles,  the 
only  monument  of  mighty  Ilium  —  and  that  great  siege  un- 
dertaken for  a  woman !  How  much  that  was  and  is  great, 
new,  and  unknown,  would  there  not  be  opened  to  me  !  And 
yet  I  was  deeply  grieved  to  leave  Greece,  where  all  things 
raised  my  thoughts  from  the  trifles  of  every- day  life,  and 
where  every  bitterness  from  home  was  erased  from  my  soul. 

I  met  most  of  my  friends  from  Athens  in  Piraeus  ;  the  priest 
Liith  had  his  children  with  him.  They  stretched  out  their 
little  hands  after  me  ;  the  Greek  servant  seized  my  hand,  nod- 
ding and  smiling ;  Ross  was  the  last  Dane  I  saw  on  board 

—  he  pressed  me  to  his  heart.     It  was  a  painful  moment  to 
me. 

"  I  shall  come  again  to  Greece ! "  said  I,  as  if  to  comfort 
myself.  God  grant  they  may  be  prophetic  words. 

I  was  now  alone ;  the  handkerchiefs  of  the  ladies  waved 
from  the  shore ;  every  farewell  was  ended  ;  when  a  letter  of 
introduction  was  brought  me  from  Prokesch-Osten  to  Barron 

1  Professor  Ross  supposes  that  Themistocles  was  buried  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  Bay  of  Piraeus,  and  not  here. 


DEPARTURE  FROM  GREECE.         2OQ 

Sturmer,  Austrian  Internuncio  at  Constantinople.  Prokesch 
himself  had  that  morning  set  out  for  Thebes.  His  gifted 
and  amiable  lady  wrote  a  few  words  of  farewell  to  me,  and 
with  them  was  a  copy  of  Prokesch's  charming  poem  "  Gebet 
in  der  Wiiste."  1  Herr  Sonnenleitner,  Attache  to  the  Austrian 
Embassy  in  Greece,  was  the  bearer.  He  is  a  young  man 
with  a  poetic  mind,  and  personally  amiable  ;  he  was  amongst 
the  many  Germans  who  attached  themselves  to  me  in  Athens. 
I  have  often  thought  of  him,  and  I  here  again  send  him  my 
greeting. 

When  he  was  gone,  I  was  among  Greeks,  Armenians,  and 
Asiatic  Jews,  the  ship's  crew  excepted.  We  were  to  sail  at 
sunset.  I  was  affected  ;  the  sea  ran  strong ;  it  was  my  wish 
that  I  might  be  able  to  sleep  during  the  whole  voyage  to 
Syra,  as  I  had  before  done  from  Syra  to  Piraeus.  I  laid 
down  in  my  hammock  and  slept.  I  was  awakened  by  the 
noise  of  the  anchor  cable,  and  started  up :  there  was  not  the 
least  movement  in  the  sea.  I  threw  my  cloak  around  me, 
and  ran  up  on  deck  to  see  the  town  of  Syra  ;  but  I  saw  — 
Piraeus,  the  mountains  Hymettus,  and  Parnassus.  It  was  now 
morning,  at  which  time  we  were  to  start.  The  captain  had 
waited  for  royal  dispatches,  and  they  had  only  just  come.  It 
was  four  o'clock. 

We  sailed  in  pretty  shallow  water  :  the  sun  arose,  and  shone 
every  hour  with  greater  power.  One  large  umbrella  after 
another  was  put  up  ;  the  whole  company  formed  the  most 
picturesque  groups.  A  Greek  woman  sat  on  the  gun-carriage 
nursing  her  little  child  :  an  elder  girl,  poor,  but  beautiful  and 
clean,  stood  leaning  against  the  cannon.  The  men  smoked 
their  paper  cigars,  and  admired  an  Arabian's  Damascus  blade. 
They  asked  me  if  I  was  a  Bavarian,  and  when  I  said  I  was  a 
Dane,  I  was  again  greeted  as  an  American. 

The  marble  columns  of  the  ruins  of  Sunium's  temple  on 
Cape  Colonna  stood  forth  with  a  shining  whiteness  in  the 
warm  sunshine.  Sea-birds  fluttered  around  on  the  gray  des- 
ert coast. 

1  This  poem,  which  is  one  of  Prokesch-Osten's  most  celebrated  per- 
formances, is  to  be  found  in  Morgenlandische  Gtdichte,  and  is  set  to  music 
by  several  composers. 


2IO  A  POET'S  BAZAAR. 

Zea  lay  stretched  out  before  us,  and  we  soon  saw  Syra 
with  its  bare,  rocky  front.  We  had  to  sail  round  the  island 
before  the  harbor  opened  to  us.  I  had  been  here  before :  here 
at  least  I  was  no  stranger. 

The  steamer  by  which  I  was  to  sail  for  Constantinople  had 
not  yet  arrived ;  I  therefore  walked  into  the  Hotel  della 
Grecia,  and  not  an  hour  afterward  the  host  told  me  that  there 
were  some  soldiers  who  had  come  to  take  me  to  the  Council 
hall ;  the  magistrate  must  speak  with  me !  What  could 
he  want?  I  was  accompanied  by  two  halberdiers,  and  was 
brought  into  a  dark,  ugly  building,  where  a  Greek  magistrate 
asked  me,  in  an  austere  tone,  and  in  bad  Italian,  if  I  had  a 
passport  ?  I  showed  it  to  him  —  he  read  and  re-read  it ;  but 
the  passport  granted  in  Copenhagen  was  written  in  French 
and  in  Danish,  and  neither  of  these  languages  did  he  under- 
stand. 

"  There  is  a  German  whom  we  must  arrest  and  send  back 
to  Athens  !  "  said  the  man.  Then  turning  to  me,  "  I  do  not 
understand  your  passport ;  but  I  believe  you  are  a  German, 
and  the  very  person  we  are  looking  after ;  you  must  therefore 
return  to  Athens  ! " 

I  endeavored  to  explain  to  him  the  contents  of  my  pass- 
port ;  but  he  would  not  understand  me. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  I,  and  took  out  a  letter  of  introduc- 
tion I  had  received  in  Athens  to  the  Greek  minister  in  Con- 
stantinople, Chrystides,  who  had  previously  been  governor  of 
Syra,  and  to  whom  I  had  been  most  kindly  commended, 
"  please  to  read  who  I  am !  "  The  man  took  the  letter,  and 
he  soon  became  politeness  itself;  made  many  excuses,  and 
they  accompanied  me,  with  great  civility,  to  the  hotel,  where  I 
again  met  the  Russian  who  had  been  plundered  on  the  voyage 
from  Constantinople,  still  as  angry  as  before,  and  cursing  the 
East  and  all  writers  who  excited  the  desire  of  travel  in  credu- 
lous people  like  himself. 


THE  EAST. 
I. 

A   STORM    IN   THE   ARCHIPELAGO. 

I  ROWED  out  in  the  early  morning  from  the  harbor  of 
Syros  to  the  French  war-steamer,  Rhamses,  which  came 
from  Marseilles,  and  had  had  a  terribly  stormy  voyage  over 
the  Mediterranean.  The  storm  had  not  yet  ceased.  The 
wind  whistled  in  the  shrouds,  and  the  billows  lashed  the 
sides  of  the  vessel. 

When  I  reached  the  vessel,  there  was  a  screaming  and 
shouting  of  Greek  females,  Jews  and  Jewesses,  who  were  to  go 
by  it  to  Smyrna.  Before  they  were  permitted  to  go  on  board 
every  one  of  them  was  obliged  to  show  his  or  her  ticket ;  but 
it  was  either  knotted  up  in  a  handkerchief,  or  given  to  a  rela- 
tive in  another  boat,  so  that  they  were  in  dreadful  perplexity ; 
and  the  sailor  who  stood  guard  by  the  gangway  raised  his 
halberd  against  every  one  that  did  not  directly  show  his  ticket. 
A  stout  Greek  female,  in  particular,  bawled  most  horribly. 

The  poor,  miserable  deck-passengers  were  driven  to  a  place 
set  apart  for  them  on  the  vessel ;  and  a  watch  was  kept  over 
them.  The  discipline  appeared  very  strict  on  board  the 
Rhamses^ 

We  sailed  directly  in  under  the  coast  of  Tenos,  which  ap- 
peared inhabited  and  fruitful.  One  village  lay  close  to  the 
other.  One  of  them  was  of  considerable  size,  with  a  pretty 
church.  Round  about  were  vineyards  and  cultivated  fields. 
Three  chains  of  mountains  arose  one  behind  the  other.  We 
passed  so  near  to  the  rocky  walls  that  I  thought  I  felt  the 
breakers  against  the  ship.  The  sea  ran  stronger  and  stronger ; 

1  In  Athens  I  only  heard  two  French  steamers  praised  as  being  pleas- 
ant for  all  passengers ;  and  they  were  the  two  I  had  previously  sailed 
with,  Leonidas  and  Lycurgus. 


212  .*    POET'S  BAZAAR. 

it  was  as  if  the  storm  darted  out  of  the  mountains  on  Tenos. 
Already  the  waves  sprang  on  the  ship's  sides ;  the  poor  deck- 
passengers  were  obliged  to  creep  up  toward  the  chimney ; 
by  degrees  they  approached  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  flue. 
No  one  prevented  them  now ;  every  sailor  had  something  else 
to  do.  The  sails  were  hoisted,  but  they  were  hauled  down 
again  directly :  the  boatswain's  whistle  sounded ;  and  there 
was  a  shouting,  a  noise,  a  sea-sickness,  a  wailing  that  every 
moment  increased.  I  continued  for  some  time  on  deck, 
though  the  ship  several  times  darted  down  the  long  and  large 
billows  like  a  sledge  on  a  Russian  mountain. 

The  Greek  women  threw  their  arms  about  each  other's 
necks  and  howled  ;  the  children  lay  as  if  half  dead  along  the 
deck ;  and  the  sea  washed  over  the  whole  ship,  so  that  every 
one  was  soaked  with  the  salt-water.  All  this  time  the  sea- 
gulls flew  in  flocks  around  us ;  they  looked  like  the  winged 
hour-glass  of  invisible  death  :  every  plank  in  the  ship  creaked ; 
we  rushed,  as  it  were,  from  the  stars  into  the  deep,  and  again 
up  to  the  stars. 

At  length,  I  got  into  my  kammock.  Everything  rattled ; 
everything  creaked.  I  heard  the  boatswain's  whistle,  the 
shutters  that  were  closed,  the  bars  that  broke,  the  sea  that 
struck  against  the  ship,  so  that  it  stopped,  and  all  its  timbers 
groaned.  There  was  one  near  to  me  who  called  on  the  Ma- 
donna and  all  the  saints  !  Another  swore  !  I  felt  certain  that 
we  must  perish :  and,  when  I  thought  more  steadfastly  of  ap- 
proaching fate,  I  felt  myself  easier.  My  thoughts  were  with 
all  my  dear  friends  in  Denmark.  "  How  much  is  there  not 
done  for  me,  and  how  little  I  have  done !  "  This  was  the 
sorrow  that  pressed  on  my  heart !  I  thought  of  my  friends. 
"  God,  do  thou  bless  and  comfort  them  !  "  was  my  silent  prayer. 
"  Let  me  work  out  in  another  world  what  I  did  not  effect  here  ! 
All  that  they  valued  in  me  was  thine  !  Thou  has  given  me 
all !  Thy  will  be  done !  "  and  I  closed  my  eyes  !  The  storm 
raged  over  the  sea ;  the  ship  quivered  like  a  sparrow  in  a 
whirlwind  ;  but  I  slept  —  slept  from  bodily  exhaustion,  and  at 
a  good  angel's  intercession. 

When  I  awoke,  I  certainly  heard  the  beating  of  the  waves 
against  the  vessel  :  bi-t  the  ship  itself  glided  quietly  as  a 


SMYRNA. 


2I3 


sailing  swan.  We  were  under  lee  —  we  were  in  the  Bay 
of  Smyrna ;  and  I,  as  well  as  the  Greek  women,  had  assuredly 
expected  to  awake  in  another  world  ;  and  so  in  a  certain  sense 
I  did.  I  stood  on  deck,  and  before  me  lay  another  world 
—  the  coast  of  Asia. 


II. 

SMYkNA. 

THE  sea,  in  the  deep,  extensive  bay  of  Smyrna,  appeared 
of  a  green-yellow,  like  a  quarantine  flag.  The  coasts  of  Asia 
reminded  me  of  Sicily's ;  but  they  were  far  more  fruitful : 
such  fertility  I  have  never  known ;  the  sun  burned  glowing 
hot !  I  saw  that  part  of  the  world  of  which  Egypt's  Moses 
was  also  vouchsafed  a  sight  —  that  part  of  the  world  where 
Christ  was  born,  taught,  and  suffered.  I  saw  the  coasts  from 
whence  Homer's  songs  were  sent  forth  over  the  world.  The 
East,  the  home  of  adventure,  was  here  before  me ;  and  I  was 
now  about  to  set  my  foot  upon  its  soil. 

We  passed  a  fort.  The  whole  coast  to  the  right  was  covered 
with  rich  olive  woods,  in  the  middle  of  which  was  a  large  vil- 
lage, with  red-brown  houses,  blooming  fruit-trees,  and  a  fresh 
green  sward.  A  natural  park,  with  leaf-trees  and  tall  cypresses, 
joined  the  olive  woods.  Opposite  us  lay  Smyrna. 

Most  of  the  houses  are  brown,  the  roofs  red  and  pointed,  as 
in  the  North.  Cypresses  were  planted  at  almost  every  house, 
and  they  were  as  high  as  our  poplars,  in  an  almost  innumera- 
ble quantity.  Slender,  white  minarets,  the  first  I  had  ever 
seen,  arose  above  the  tall,  dark  cypresses.  In  the  eastern 
quarter  of  the  city,  down  toward  the  bay,  where  the  foreign 
consuls  live,  the  flags  of  all  nations  waved  on  lofty  poles.  A 
green  mountain,  with  a  little  grove  of  cypresses  rose  behind 
the  city,  and  on  its  summit  were  the  ruins  of  a  dilapidated  for- 
tress. 

The  harbor  was  filled  with  vessels  •  there  lay  several  steam- 
ers, a  Turkish  one  amongst  the  rest;  the  red  flag  with  the 
naif-moon  waved  at  the  top.  A  boat  with  veiled  Turkish  fe- 
males rowed  thither :  these  concealed,  white  figures  reminded 
me  of  the  Roman  funeral  processions. 


214  A   POET>S  BAZAAR. 

We  cast  anchor,  and  I  went  on  shore. 

It  was  then  destined,  at  my  birth,  that  I  should  tread  on 
Asia's  shore.  My  thoughts  were  filled  with  great  remem- 
brances, and  the  first  thing  here  that  my  eye  lighted  upon 
was  a  French  theatrical  afficht. 

A  French  company  was  here  ;  they  performed  that  evening 
"  La  Reine  de  seize  ans,"  and  "  Les  premiers  Amours."  Queen 
Christina  of  Sweden  was  fond  of  rambling  ;  but  she  certainly 
never  thought  of  showing  herself,  or  of  being  "  shown  up  "  in  a 
theatre  in  Asia,  before  Greeks  and  Turks. 

I  went  into  the  nearest  street,  which  would  be  called  a  lane 
with  us  ;  a  number  of  small  alleys  run  out  of  this  street.  The 
neighbor  on  one  side  could  easily  take  a  pinch  out  of  his 
friend's  box  on  the  other,  from  his  window.  The  houses  are 
of  wood  and  brick,  or  entirely  of  planks.  None  of  them  are 
very  high,  and  in  the  chief  street  most  of  the  ground-floors 
are  open  shops,  with  all  sorts  of  wares.  This  street  runs 
through  the  whole  town,  and  terminates  in  the  higher  situated 
portion  by  the  bazaar. 

They  say  that,  to  avoid  the  plague,  we  must  be  careful  not 
to  come  in  contact  with  any  one ;  but  it  is  an  impossibility 
to  do  otherwise  :  if  we  have  occasion,  or  feel  a  desire  to  go 
through  the  principal  street  of  Smyrna,  it  is  too  narrow,  and 
the  crowd  is  too  great.  I  met  vast  numbers  of  women  wrapped 
in  long  muslin  veils,  so  that  only  the  tip  of  the  nose  and  the 
dark  eyes  were  to  be  seen.  There  came  Armenians  in  long 
blue  and  black  talarez,  or  gaberdines,  with  large  black  hats, 
in  the  form  of  an  inverted  cooking-pot,  on  their  bare,  shaven 
heads  ;  smartly  dressed  Greeks,  and  dirty  Jews,  and  majestic 
looking  Turks,  who  had  their  pipes  borne  before  them  by  a 
lad.  A  sort  of  calash,  with  variegated  curtains,  was  placed 
on  the  hump  of  a  camel,  and  from  this  a  veiled  female  head 
peeped  out  A  Bedouin,  with  bare  legs,  and  head  almost  hid 
in  his  white  burnoose,  strode  with  hasty  steps,  like  a  disguised 
lion  of  the  desert,  through  the  crowd.  I  met  a  half-naked, 
black  boy  driving  two  ostriches  before  him  with  a  stick. 
Each  of  them  looked  like  a  worn-out  trunk  on  stilts,  to  which 
was  fastened  a  dirty  swan's  neck.  They  were  two  ugly  crea- 
tures, but  they  produced  an  effect  in  the  picture.  A  scent  of 


A  ROSE  FROM  HOMER'S  GRAVE. 


215 


musk  and  myrrh  streamed  out  of  several  of  the  shops  ;  others 
were  filled  with  fruit  —  Pomona's  horn  of  plenty  is  not  licher  ! 
Clothes  from  three  parts  of  the  world  made  the  most  varied 
show  here.  All  tongues  jangle  amongst  each  other  — Arabian, 
Turkish,  Greek,  Italian  ;  it  would  look  like  a  register,  were  I 
to  enumerate  them  all. 

My  companion  pointed  to  a  gentleman  in  the  midst  of  the 
crowd  in  a  Frankish  dress.  "  That  is  the  Danish  Consul, 
Herr  Jongh,"  said  he.  I  presented  myself  to  him  as  a  Dane, 
and  we  were  soon  walking  arm  in  arm  through  the  long  street. 
Thus,  by  accident,  I  met  at  once  the  very  person  in  Smyrna, 
to  whom,  as  a  Dane,  I  could  best  apply.  Herr  Jongh,  how- 
ever, was  that  very  hour  going  to  Constantinople  in  one  of 
the  Turkish  steamers,  the  swiftness  of  which  he  praised  much ; 
we  should  again  meet  in  Pera. 

At  a  remote  part  of  the  town,  where  the  high-road  seemed 
to  lead  into  the  interior  of  the  country,  was  a  Turkish  khan. 
Large  bolsters  and  rush  mats  lay  before  it,  and  on  these  were 
stretched  a  number  of  Turks  in  variegated  caftan  and  turban, 
smoking  their  pipes.  Large  carriages,  similar  to  those  we 
in  Denmark  call  basket  wagons,  were  drawn  by  white  oxen, 
hung  round  with  metal  plates,  red  cords,  and  tassels.  One 
carriage  was  quite  filled  with  veiled  females,  who  sat  in  a  heap 
in  the  bottom  of  the  wagon,  which  was  driven  by  a  stout  old 
Turk.  They  were  certainly  pretty.  Yes,  behind  many  a 
grating  to  each  street,  there  was,  surely,  a  small  collection  of 
houris  ;  but  they  were,  as  the  Turkish  poet  sings,  "  Hidden 
like  rubies  in  the  casket,  like  attar  of  roses  in  the  bottle,  and 
like  the  parrot  in  the  cage !  "  Even  the  negress  concealed 
that  "  Night  had  poured  itself  into  her  limbs,"  and  that  "  the 
hair  is  a  darkness  which  rests  on  darkness  1 " 


III. 

A   ROSE    FROM    HOMER'S   GRAVE. 

THE  nightingale's  love  for  the  rose  is  celebrated  in  all  ori- 
ental songs.  The  winged  singer  brings  a  serenade  to  his  odor- 
ous flower  in  the  silent,  starry  night. 


2l6  A   POETS  BAZAAR. 

I  saw  a  blooming  hedge  of  roses  not  far  from  Smyrna,  under 
the  tall  plantains  where  the  merchant  drives  his  loaded  camels, 
proudly  stretching  their  long  necks,  and  treading  clumsily  on 
the  ground,  which  is  holy ;  the  wild  doves  flew  amongst  the 
high  branches  of  the  trees,  and  the  dove's  wings  shone,  as  a 
ray  of  sunlight  glided  over  them,  so  that  the  wings  looked  like 
mother-of-pearl. 

On  the  rose-hedge  one  flower  was  the  first  amongst  them 
all,  and  to  this  the  nightingale  sang  his  sorrowful  love-tale. 
But  the  rose  was  silent.  Not  a  dew-drop  lay,  like  the  tear  of 
pity,  on  its  leaves ;  it  was  bent  with  its  stem  over  some  large 
stones. 

"  Here  rests  the  world's  greatest  poet !  "  said  the  rose :  "  I 
will  shed  my  perfume  over  his  grave  !  I  will  strew  my  leaves 
on  it  when  the  storm  tears  them  off!  The  Iliad's  singer 
became  earth  in  this  earth  in  which  I  germinated,  and  from 
whence  I  sprang !  I,  a  rose  from  Homer's  grave,  am  too  holy 
to  bloom  for  the  poor  nightingale  !  " 

And  the  nightingale  sang  himself  to  death.  The  camel 
driver  came  with  his  loaded  camels,  and  his  black  slaves.  His 
little  boy  found  the  dead  bird.  He  buried  the  little  warbler  in 
great  Homer's  grave,  and  the  rose  shivered  in  the  blast.  The 
evening  came,  the  rose  folded  its  leaves  closer,  and  dreamt 
that  there  was  a  beautiful  sunlit  day.  A  crowd  of  strange 
men  came ;  they  were  Franks.  They  had  made  a  pilgrimage 
to  Homer's  grave.  Amongst  the  strangers  was  a  poet  from 
the  North,  from  the  home  of  mists  and  the  Northern  Lights. 
He  broke  the  rose  off  its  stem,  pressed  it  fast  in  a  book,  and 
took  it  with  him  to  another  quarter  of  the  globe,  to  his  distant 
father-land.  And  the  rose  withered  with  grief,  and  lay  in  the 
narrow  book  which  he  opened  in  his  home,  saying :  "  Here  is 
&  rose  from  Homer's  grave  !  " 

Yes,  that  is  what  the  flower  dreamed,  and  it  awoke  and 
trembled  in  the  wind.  A  dew-drop  fell  from  its  leaves  on  the 
songster's  grave.  And  the  sun  arose,  and  the  flower  was  more 
beautiful  than  before.  The  day  was  warm  ;  the  rose  was  in 
its  own  warm  Asia.  Then  footsteps  were  heard ;  there  came 
strange  Franks,  as  the  rose  had  seen  them  in  its  dream,  and 
amongst  the  strangers  was  a  poet  from  the  North.  He  broke 


A  LITTLE  BIRD  HAS  SUNG  ABOUT  IT.  21  ^ 

the  rose  off,  pressed  a  kiss  on  its  fresh  lips,  and  took  it  with 
him  to  the  home  of  mists  and  the  Northern  Lights. 

The  remains  of  the  flower  now  rests,  like  a  mummy,  in  his 
u  Iliad  "  ;  and  as  in  its  dream,  it  hears  him  open  the  book  and 
say :  "  Here  is  a  rose  from  Homer's  grave  ! " 


IV. 

A  LITTLE   BIRD   HAS   SUNG  ABOUT   IT. 

WE  sail  again  out  of  Smyrna's  bay,  past  the  fragrant  green 
wood,  past  the  eternal  monuments.  Fresh  passengers  have 
come  on  board.  Who  is  that  poor  Greek  sitting  there  abaft, 
on  the  rusty  iron  anchor-cable  ?  He  is  young  and  handsome, 
but  poorly  clad.  He  comes  from  no  great  distance  —  his 
wretched  clay  cabin  stands  where  the  most  celebrated  temple 
once  stood  proudly  aloft,  glittering  with  gold  and  ivory.  He 
is  a  herdsman  from  Ephesus.  Does  he  know  the  great  me- 
mentoes that  are  associated  with  his  home,  with  that  spot 
where  he  bakes  his  black  bread  between  stones  in  the  hot 
ashes  ?  His  father  has  told  him  a  story,  the  blocks  of  marble 
in  the  grass  have  witnessed  its  truth,  and  a  little  bird  has 
sung  about  it. 

New  Phocea  lies  under  the  mountain,  between  the  green 
hills.  Nod,  ye  green  branches,  nod  to  our  ship  ;  it  comes 
from  France,  from  Marseilles ;  the  city  that  was  founded  by 
Phocea's  children.  Ye  are  too  young,  ye  green  branches,  to 
know  anything  about  it ;  but  yet  you  know  it ;  a  little  bird 
has  sung  about  it ! 

Thou  stormy  sea,  why  dost  thou  swell  so?  The  sky  is 
cloudless,  the  sun  sinks  in  ruddy  grandeur!  Asia's  treble 
mountain  chain  breathes  greatness  and  peace  !  Rest,  rest 
thou  stormy  sea,  and  dream  of  old  remembrances  ! 

The  new  moon  in  the  firmament  seems  like  a  thin  boat  of 
gold  bearing  a  glass  ball.  It  hangs  by  an  invisible  thread 
from  the  glittering  evening  star,  whose  ray  points  down  to- 
ward Mytilene.  What  an  evening !  Yet  in  the  North  I  had 
imagined  such  a  one  ;  a  little  bird  has  sung  about  it ! 


2l8  4  POET'S  BAZAAR. 

It  is  night :  the  billows  strike  against  the  ship,  which  con- 
tinues its  unchanging  course.  We  are  now  under  lee ;  but 
where?  Who  can  sleep  under  the  far-famed  coasts  fraught 
with  reminiscences  ?  We  stand  on  the  deck.  The  stars  of 
night  light  up  Tenedos  and  the  coast  of  Asia.  A  row  of 
windmills  stand  high  aloft,  like  playthings ;  the  sails  turn 
round;  a  plain  opens  before  us  from  the  sea  to  the  moun- 
tains. The  helmsman  points  to  a  dark  spot,  a  gigantic  hill 
on  the  plain,  and  says :  "  Achilles !  "  Thou  outstretched, 
solitary  heath,  with  poor  huts  and  bush-grown  grave,  dost 
thou  know  thy  fame  ?  No,  thou  art  too  old  !  Thou  hast  for- 
gotten thy  great  mementoes,  —  Hector  and  Achilles,  Ulysses 
and  Agamemnon  !  Plain  beneath  Ida  whereon  stood  Troy, 
thou  no  longer  knowest  thyself!  The  stranger  asks  thee  about 
thy  memories,  and  thou  answerest,  "  I  believe  so  !  The  stars 
know  it !  The  stars  know  where  Ilium  stood  ;  where  Athena 
saved  the  hero  !  I  do  not  remember  it !  but  I  have  heard  it ; 
a  little  bird  has  sung  about  it !  " 


V. 

THE   DARDANELLES  AND  THE  SEA  OF   MARMORA. 

WE  sailed  into  the  Dardanelles,  the  Hellespont  of  the 
ancients,  early  in  the  morning.  On  the  European  side  lay  a 
town  which  seemed  to  have  but  one  temple  for  God,  but 
several  for  the  stomach ;  here  stood  one  minaret  and  five 
windmills.  Close  to  the  town  was  a  pretty,  nay,  as  it  seemed, 
a  handsome  fortress  ;  on  the  Asiatic  side  was  a  similar  one ; 
the  distance  between  the  two  appeared  to  me  to  be  about 
three  quarters  of  a  sea  mile.  Each  coast  was  of  a  gravelly 
slope,  behind  which  appeared  flat,  green  fields.  On  the 
European  side,  at  some  distance  from  each  other,  lay  some 
wretched  stone  cabins  where  the  doors  and  windows  were  only 
holes  in  the  walls  ;  here  and  there  grew  a  pine  bush,  and  a 
few  Turks  were  wandering  on  the  solitary  path  along  the 
strand.  On  the  Asiatic  side  it  appeared  more  inviting,  more 
like  summer  ;  green  fields  with  rich,  umbrageous  trees  lay  ex- 
tended there. 


THE  DARDANELLES  AND  SEA    OF  MARMORA. 


219 


Before  us  we  saw  Abydos  in  Asia,  and  Sestos  in  Europe, 
between  which  Leander  swam  over  the  stream  that  separated 
him  from  Hero.  The  burning  lamp,  held  by  love,  was  ex- 
tinguished in  the  storm,  and  in  the  storm  a  burning  heart  be- 
came icy  cold.  The  same  swimming  exploit  was  performed 
by  Byron  and  Lieutenant  Ekenhead,  R.  N.,  in  March,  1810. 

The  distance  here  between  the  coasts  of  these  two  parts  of 
the  world  appeared  to  me  not  great ;  at  least,  I  saw  with  the 
naked  eye  every  single  bush  and  every  person  ;  yet  the  trans- 
parency of  the  air  must  not  be  forgotten.  Both  the  small 
towns  had  brown  roofs,  high,  slender  minarets,  and  before 
each  house  was  a  green,  flourishing  garden. 

The  tide  was  against  our  steamer  ;  but  with  about  a  two 
hundred  horse-power  we  get  forward  in  the  world. 

We  steered  over  toward  the  coast  of  Asia  and  the  great  city 
of  the  Dardanelles,  on  the  fortress  of  which  one  great  cannon 
was  ranged  by  the  side  of  the  other :  they  did  not  salute  us. 
Soldiers  in  European  uniform,  yet  with  red,  high-crowned  fez, 
peeped  forth  from  between  the  port-holes.  Boats  with  Turks 
and  Turkish  women  rowed  round  our  steamer.  All  the  ves- 
sels in  sight  carried  the  flag  with  the  Crescent  on  it ;  even  the 
steam-vessel  that  passed  us  was  Turkish.  The  deck  was 
filled  with  Mussulmen,  and  their  veiled  women.  The  wind 
and  tide  were  in  their  favor ;  the  mainsail  was  hoisted  ;  the 
smoke  whirled  thick  and  black  out  of  the  chimney,  and  the 
ship,  with  its  motley  passengers,  shot  forward  at  a  rapid  rate 
between  the  green  coasts. 

Some  of  our  passengers  left  us  here,  but  new  guests  took 
their  places:  there  was  above  a  hundred,  all  Turks,  with  fez 
or  turban,  and  armed  with  pistols  and  guns.  An  officer,  per- 
haps between  twenty  and  thirty  years  of  age,  had  all  his  se- 
raglio with  him.  The  women  and  their  servants  filled  a  whole 
boat  when  they  came.  I  placed  myself  by  the  steps  where 
they  ascended  to  the  deck ;  three  wives,  three  black  female 
slaves,  two  children,  and  an  attendant  constituted  the  family. 
The  women  at  once  drew  the  veil  over  their  faces,  even 
the  black  slaves  hid  their  dark  beauty.  Their  attendant, 
dressed  like  the  master  himself,  in  military  frock,  fez  on  his 
head,  and  slippers  on  his  boots,  spread  cushions  out  by  the 


22O  A  POET'S  BAZAAR. 

gunwale.  The  women  laid  themselves  down  on  them  with 
their  backs  to  us,  and  their  faces  toward  the  balustrade :  all 
had  yellow  morocco  boots  with  red  slippers  over  them  ;  they 
wore  spacious  silk  trousers,  a  short,  variegated  skirt,  and  a 
conical-shaped  cloak  with  black  border ;  a  large  white  muslin 
veil  covered  the  breast,  neck,  chin,  and  mouth,  and  hung  for- 
ward over  the  head  to  the  eyebrows.  The  nose  and  eyes 
were  thus  exposed  ;  the  long  dark  eyelashes  heightened  the 
lustre  of  their  black  eyes,  the  whites  of  which  were  rather  blu- 
ish ;  the  muslin  sat  so  tight  and  was  so  transparent,  that  one 
could  distinctly  trace  the  form  of  the  countenance.  I  after- 
ward learned  in  Constantinople  that  it  is  only  when  they  are 
old  and  ugly  that  the  veil  is  made  of  less  penetrable  stuff. 
We  can  see  the  form,  the  color,  the  red  lips,  and  the  shining 
white  teeth  when  they  laugh  ;  the  youngest  of  the  females  was 
very  pretty. 

Before  we  sailed,  all  the  Turks  we  had  on  board  were 
obliged  to  discharge  their  pistols  and  guns  ;  they  cracked 
merrily,  and  gave  an  echo  from  Abydos  and  Sestos.  All  the 
weapons  were  laid  in  a  heap  in  the  middle  of  the  vessel,  which 
in  a  few  minutes  was  covered  from  the  bowsprit  to  the  rudder 
with  variegated  cushions  and  carpets,  on  which  the  many 
Asiatic  guests  stretched  themselves  along  ;  some  smoked  to- 
bacco, others  drank  coffee,  and  others  again  opened  the  han- 
dles of  their  daggers,  in  which  was  an  inkhorn  and  reed  to 
write  with,  and  composed  long  Turkish  notes  ;  but  whether 
they  were  in  verse  or  prose,  I  cannot  say. 

There  still  lay  four  sacks  with  coals  by  the  engine  chimney, 
and  on  one  of  these  sat  a  merry  young  Turk,  dressed  in  a 
dark-blue  fur-bordered  cloak,  and  with  a  splendid  shawl  tur- 
ban. He  improvised  verses,  and  told  stories  to  a  whole 
crowd,  who  had  sat  down  around  him.  They  laughed,  and  ap- 
plauded him  ;  here  were  mirth  and  hilarity  quite  different  from 
what  I  had  imagined  in  the  grave  Turks.  The  captain  and 
a  few  other  Franks  stood  on  the  paddle-boxes  and  viewed 
the  coasts. 

A  burial-ground,  with  white  monuments,  lay  on  the  Eu- 
ropean side :  it  might  have  been  taken  for  a  large  bleaching- 
fold.  On  the  Asiatic  side  there  was  a  charming  appearance 


THE  DARDANELLES  AND  SEA  OF  MARMORA.  221 

of  spring.  I  took  my  place  amongst  the  Turks,  who  listened 
to  the  improvisatore ;  and  they  showed  me  how  far  more  con- 
venient their  clothes  were  than  mine  to  lie  down  in.  The 
trousers,  fitted  close  about  the  ankles,  but  toward  the  knees 
they  were  like  wide  sacks  ;  and  their  jackets  sat  upon  them 
just  as  easily.  I  presented  some  fruit  to  the  young  Turk  who 
improvised,  and  he  thanked  me  with  a  happy  friendly  face. 
His  eyelashes  were  dark  and  long,  but  his  eyes  of  a  very 
light-blue  :  there  was  in  them  an  expression  of  much  good- 
nature, mixed  with  cunning.  He  seized  his  reed,  tore  a  leaf 
of  paper  out  of  a  pocket-book,  and  wrote,  all  the  time  nod- 
ding and  smiling  to  me.  He  then  gave  me  the  leaf,  on  which 
was  a  Turkish  verse.  I  showed  it  to  a  Frank  who  knew 
Turkish,  and  he  translated  it  for  me  :  at  the  bottom  was  the 
young  Turk's  name.  He  was  going  to  Wallachia  to  buy  some 
splendid  horses  ;  but  he  would  first  see  Stamboul.  He  had 
made  the  voyage  on  board  the  excellent  steamship  Rhamses  ; 
and  on  it  he  had  met  with  me,  who  came  from  a  greater  dis- 
tance than  three  times  to  Mecca.  I  thanked  him  for  the 
verse,  and  he  begged  me  to  write  him  a  few  words  in  my  lan- 
guage. I  wrote  a  short  Danish  verse  for  him,  and  it  was 
twisted  and  turned  by  him  and  his  comrades  just  as  I  had 
twisted  and  turned  his  Turkish  poem  up  and  down. 

I  afterward  placed  myself  by  the  gunwale  of  the  vessel, 
where  the  Turkish  women  sat,  for  I  wished  to  see  the  coast ; 
but  I  also  looked  at  the  women.  They  were  eating,  and  had 
therefore  taken  the  veil  from  their  mouths.  They  also  re- 
garded me.  The  youngest  and  prettiest  seemed  to  be  a 
merry  soul :  she  certainly  made  remarks  about  me,  and  whis- 
pered them  to  an  elder  one,  who  observed  the  greatest  grav- 
ity, and  only  answered  with  a  nod.  During  this  mutual  exam- 
ination and  regarding  of  each  other,  a  young  Turk  came  up, 
and  entered  into  conversation  with  me  in  French,  in  the 
course  of  which  he  said,  in  a  half-jesting  tone,  that  it  was  con- 
trary to  the  custom  of  the  country  for  people  to  see  their 
women  without  veils  ;  and  asked  me  if  I  did  not  think  the 
husband  regarded  me  with  a  serious  mien.  His  eldest  little 
daughter  waited  on  him  with  his  pipe  and  coffee ;  the  younger 
one  ran  between  him  and  the  women. 


222  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

If  a  man  would  be  on  good  terms  with  parents,  he  must 
make  friends  with  the  children.  This  is  a  wise  rule  :  and 
one  that  I  have  always  found  a  good  one.  I  wished  to  get 
hold  of  the  younger  of  the  two  girls,  to  give  her  fruit,  and  play 
with  her  ;  but  she  was  like  a  wild  kid  ;  she  darted  away  to 
one  of  the  black  girls,  clung  fast  to  her,  and  hid  herself,  ex- 
cept the  face,  with  the  long  veil.  The  merry  little  creature 
laughed  from  her  place  of  security,  and  stretched  her  mouth 
out  as  if  to  kiss ;  then  whimpered  aloud,  and  rushed  toward 
her  father.  The  elder  sister,  apparently  about  six  years  old, 
and  extremely  pretty,  was  more  tame.  She  was  a  charming 
little  unveiled  Turkish  girl,  with  red  morocco  slippers  ovei 
her  yellow  boots,  light-blue  silk  trousers,  like  bags,  around  her 
legs,  a  red  flowered,  short  tunic,  and  a  black  velvet  jacket 
over  it,  which  descended  around  the  hips  ;  her  hair  hung  over 
her  shoulders  in  two  long  plaits,  in  which  were  golden  coins, 
and  on  her  head  she  wore  a  little  cap  of  gold  stuff.  She  en- 
couraged her  little  sister  to  eat  some  of  the  fruit  I  offered  ; 
but  she  would  not  I  ordered  the  servant  to  bring  some  pre- 
serves, and  the  eldest  and  I  soon  became  the  best  of  friends. 
She  showed  me  her  plaything ;  it  was  a  clay  jug  to  drink  out 
of,  formed  like  a  horse,  and  with  a  little  bird  behind  each  ear. 
Had  I  been  able  to  speak  Turkish  with  her,  I  should  at  once 
have  made  a  story  about  it  for  her.  I  placed  her  on  my  lap, 
and  she  took  hold  of  my  cheeks  with  her  small  hands,  and 
looked  up  in  my  eyes  so  affectionately  and  confidentially,  that 
I  was  obliged  to  speak  to  her.  I  spoke  Danish,  and  she 
laughed  so  that  her  little  heart  hopped  within  her :  she  had 
never  before  heard  so  strange  a  speech.  She  certainly 
thought  that  it  was  some  Turkish  gibberish  I  had  put  together 
for  her  amusement  Her  fine  small  nails  were  painted,  like 
the  women's,  quite  black  ;  a  black  stripe  was  traced  across 
the  centre  of  the  palm  of  her  hand.  I  pointed  to  it,  and  she 
took  one  of  her  fine,  long  hair  plaits  and  laid  it  in  my  hand, 
to  form  a  similar  stripe  across  it,  then  winked  to  her  younger 
sister,  who  talked  with  her,  but  always  at  a  respectable  dis- 
tance. Her  father  called  her,  and  as,  with  the  most  friendly 
expression  of  face,  he  put  his  hand  to  his  fez,  in  the  manner 
of  the  Franks,  and  greeted  me,  he  whispered  a  few  words  ic 


THE  DARDANELLES  AND  SEA  OF  MARMORA.  22$ 

the  child's  ear.  She  nodded  knowingly,  took  a  cup  of  coffee 
out  of  the  servant's  hand,  and  brought  it  to  me.  A  large 
Turkish  pipe  was  next  presented  to  me,  but  as  I  do  not  smoke 
tobacco,  I  accepted  the  coffee,  and  lay  down  on  the  cushion 
with  the  friendly  husband,  whose  little  daughter's  heart  I  had 
already  won.  That  pretty  child's  name  was  Zuleika ;  and  I 
can  say  with  truth,  that  as  I  sailed  from  the  Dardanelles  into 
the  Sea  of  Marmora,  I  got  a  kiss  from  one  of  Asia's  daugh- 
ters. 

The  town  of  Gallipoli  lay  to  the  left :  it  appeared  singularly 
dark,  and  had  quite  the  character  of  a  northern  Swedish  town, 
if  I  except  the  tall,  white  minarets.  All  the  houses  —  close 
to  each  house  was  a  little  garden  —  had  pointed  red  roofs, 
just  like  ours  in  the  North ;  and  they  all  appeared  dark  and 
old-fashioned,  with  wooden  balconies,  and  porches  painted 
red.  There  was  something  dark  and  ruinous  in  the  appear- 
ance of  the  whole  city.  Several  buildings  hung  over  the  sea 
where  the  waves  ran  strong  ;  it  blew  desperately  cold.  During 
my  whole  voyage  in  the  South  I  never  experienced  it  so  cold. 
I  felt  the  icy  coldness  of  marble.  A  light-house  was  built 
on  the  Asiatic  and  one  on  the  European  side  ;  low,  but  wild 
and  naked  rocks  extended  along  the  coast  by  Gallipoli ;  then 
came  flat  green  fields  as  in  Denmark :  on  the  Asiatic  coast 
several  mountains  arose  behind  each  other.  The  wind  and 
stream  were  against  us  ;  the  Sea  of  Marmora  looked  dark  and 
foaming  ;  the  waves  struck  against  the  prow  of  the  vessel,  and 
splashed  over  the  Turks  who  had  taken  their  places  there  ; 
one  of  them  got  a  fine  sousing.  He  shook  his  red  mantle, 
and  took  his  three  head-coverings  off;  the  outside  one  was 
quite  filled  with  water.  All  the  Turks  have,  as  is  well  known, 
the  hair  of  their  heads  shaved  off,  except  a  long  tuft,  by  which 
the  angel  of  life  is  to  drag  them  out  of  the  grave  on  the  day 
of  judgment.  This  Turk  had  on,  first  a  white  night-cap  ; 
over  this  was  a  little  red  fez,  and  on  this  again  a  larger  fez 
with  a  silk  tuft.  I,  however,  felt  myself  able  to  bear  the  sea, 
but  the  wind  was  intolerably  cold,  —  as  in  the  North.  We 
were  soon  out  of  sight  of  the  coasts  both  of  Europe  and  Asia, 
and  steered  our  course  directly  toward  the  marble  island, 
which  arose  picturesquely  grand  in  the  midst  of  the  troubled 


224  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

sea.  After  dinner,  we  were  under  its  coast,  where  the  sea 
was  not  running  so  strong.  The  sun  was  going  down,  and  it 
lighted  up  the  beautiful  island  with  its  green  trees  and  shin- 
ing white  marble  rocks.  I  thought  of  the  Arabian  Nights' 
tales,  and  although  it  was  so  cold,  I  felt  myself  here  amid  the 
scenes  of  its  strange  adventures.  I  believe  it  would  not  have 
astonished  me  much  if  the  little  clay  horse  with  a  bird  behind 
its  ear  had  received  life,  and  swelled  into  a  large  horse  which 
might  have  borne  me  and  little  Zuleika,  and  flown  with  us 
over  to  the  marble  island  ;  and  when  we  touched  the  earth 
there  amongst  myrtles,  that  she  had  become  a  full  grown  girl, 
charming  as  she  was  in  childhood,  and  glowing  as  the  sun  that 
had  poured  his  beams  into  her  dark  eyes  ;  but  the  clay  horse 
was  not  animated,  and  there  was  no  flight. 

The  sea  ran  stronger  and  stronger :  I  was  obliged  to  lie 
down  in  my  hammock,  though  it  was  not  more  than  half-past 
seven  in  the  evening.  The  cold  Sea  of  Marmora  so  assailed 
the  ship  that  its  side  bones  cracked,  making  us  fancy  that  the 
planks  would  be  separated  from  each  other.  The  time  crept 
on  at  a  snail's  pace ;  whenever  I  looked  at  the  clock,  the 
hands  had  scarcely  advanced  half  an  hour.  "  O,  it  will 
be  a  long  night ! "  said  I,  —  and  then  I  slept,  whilst  the  ship 
danced  over  the  foam  of  la  mare  di  Marmora  / 


VI. 

ARRIVAL  AT  CONSTANTINOPLE   AND   PERA. 

THE  whole  night  had  been  one  of  storm  and  rain  ;  in  the 
morning  the  sunshine  combated  against  clouds  and  mist ;  be- 
hind us  rolled  the  dark-green  foamy  waves  of  the  Sea  of  Mar- 
mora ;  but  before  us  we  saw,  like  a  Venice  built  by  the  fancy, 
the  Stamboul  of  the  Turks,  the  immense  city  of  Constan 
tinople.  Dark  cypresses  and  light-green  trees  peeped  forth, 
arabesque-like,  between  that  stone-sea  of  dark  red  buildings, 
where  the  cupolas  of  the  mosques,  with  golden  balls  and  cres- 
cents, rested  each  like  a  Noah's  ark  ;  and  where  the  high 
column-like  minarets,  with  their  pointed  towers,  shone  by 
hundreds  against  the  gray,  cloudy  air. 


ARRIVAL  AT  CONSTANTINOPLE  AND  PER  A. 


225 


The  Bosphorus  was  not  to  be  seen  ;  Asia's  mountainous 
eoast  melted  together  with  Europe's.  The  sunlight  fell  over 
a  great  part  of  the  cypress  forest  —  the  Asiatic  burial-ground 
of  the  Turks  —  of  which  they  say  that  its  surface  is  so  great 
that  it  could  furnish  Constantinople  with  corn,  and  its  coffins 
are  so  many  that  they  could  build  new  walls  around  the  city 
with  them.1 

We  sailed  directly  in  under  the  old  walls,  which  were  built  so 
as  to  be  joined  to  the  first  building  we  saw  there,  the  fortress, 
the  seven  towers,  in  Turkish  —  "  Jedi  Kulelev  ;  "  —  many  an 
earthquake  has  shaken  this  building,  but  not  destroyed  it 
Foliage  of  ivy  and  wild  plants  hung  down  from  the  walls ; 
dark  and  dingy  was  this  inhabited  ruin,  the  place  of  execu- 
tion for  political  prisoners,  in  the  yard  of  which  the  well  of 
blood  swallows  up  the  heads  of  the  state  criminals  who  are 
put  to  death  here. 

From  the  "  Seven  Towers,"  past  the  gardens  of  the  Seraglio 
which  form  the  point  of  the  Golden  Horn,2  a  road  extends 
along  by  the  sea  under  the  walls  of  the  city.  Small  houses 
and  hanging  gardens  are  erected  on  them,  where  Turkish  boys 
ran  playing  and  screaming. 

Under  the  gardens  of  the  Seraglio  the  road  became  smaller, 
but  the  walls  higher  and  quite  white,  with  small  overhanging 
houses,  the  railed-in  windows  of  which  shone  with  gold  and 
silver;  the  whole  garden  and  walls  lay  fairy  like,  like  what  we 
may  have  seen  in  a  dream.  The  old  Seraglio  is  a  dark-red, 
noble-looking  pile,  but  somewhat  heavy  in  comparison  with 
the  rest  of  the  environs.*  The  new  Seraglio  looks  handsome, 
and  invites  the  eye.  Round  about  stand  splendid  kiosks, 
where  rich  marble  columns  support  the  glittering  spiral  roofs. 

1  The  promontory  here  at  Scutari  is  the  place  where  Mythology  states 
»nat  lo  landed,  when,  fleeing  from  Juno,  she  was  turned  into  a  heifer. 

3  Constantinople  is  built  entirely  in  the  form  of  a  horn  of  plenty,  and 
from  thence  it  has  the  name  of  "The  Golden  Horn." 

8  On  the  place  where  Byzas  erected  temples  to  Neptune  and  Aphro- 
dite, Constantine  built  churches  to  the  Virgin  and  St.  Barbara.  Where 
these  temples  and  the  churches  stood  there  is  now  the  Seraglio.  A 
holy  spring  for  the  Christians  bubbles  forth  from  the  garden  through  the 
walls. 

IS 


226  A    POET'S  BAZAAR. 

We  swept  round  the  Golden  Horn,  past  Leander's  To  wet,1 
and  now  lay  in  the  harbor,  which  extends  into  the  sweet 
waters  ; 2  on  the  left  side  Constantinople  greeted  us,  on  the 
right  lay  Galata,  and  higher  up  Pera,  the  round  tower  of 
which  stood  high  in  air  where  the  clouds  floated.  Large  ves- 
sels formed  a  forest  of  masts  in  the  broad  bay.  A  mass 
of  boats,  most  of  them  narrow  and  small  like  the  canoes  of 
the  savages,  with  the  rowers  and  passengers  lying  at  the  bot- 
tom, flew  past  like  arrows.  There  was  such  a-screaming  and 
shouting,  whistling  and  humming,  compared  with  which  the 
noise  in  the  Bay  of  Naples  appeared  to  me  as  a  solemn  festival. 

Old  brown-yellow  Turks,  with  large  variegated  turbans  and 
naked  arms,  lifted  their  voices  one  above  the  other,  swung 
their  oars  about,  and  invited  us  to  enter  their  boats.  I  had  my 
things  thrown  down  into  one,  followed  after  myself,  and  away 
we  went  with  rapid  strokes  toward  the  shore,  which  was  gar- 
nished with  boats  and  small  vessels.  We  landed  over  these, 
and  stood  on  the  jetty.  I  offered  the  waterman  a  silver  coin, 
the  value  of  which  I  did  not  rightly  know :  he  shook  his  head, 
took  a  very  small  coin  from  his  pocket,  and  showed  it  to  me, 
assuring  me  that  a  greater  payment  was  not  due  to  him.  So 
honest  are  the  Turks  ;  and  every  day,  during  my  stay  there,  I 
had  fresh  proofs  of  their  honesty.  The  Turks  are  the  most 
good-natured  and  fair  dealing  people  I  have  ever  encountered. 

A  ruddy-brown  muscular  Arabian  offered  himself  to  carry 
my  luggage.  He  put  a  cord  hastily  round  my  portmanteau, 
trunk,  and  hat-box,  threw  the  burden  over  his  shoulders,  and 
walked  on,  only  nodding  when  I  named  the  hotel  where  I 
wished  to  stay. 

We  came  into  a  crooked  street,  or  rather  maze,  where  every 
house  was  a  shop  with  vegetables,  bread,  meat,  or  clothes ; 
and  where  we  met  men  of  all  nations.  The  way  was  through 
the  narrow  gate  of  Galata  into  Pera.  No  one  asked  me  for  a 

1  The  Turks  call  it  the  Maiden's  Tower,  and  connect  with  it  a  story  of 
a  Greek  princess,  who  was  kept  imprisoned  here  by  her  father,  but  was 
liberated  by  the  Arabian  hero,  Heschan.  It  is  now  used  as  a  light- 
house. 

1  So  the  Franks  call  this  beautiful  valley,  which  borders  on  the  northern 
part  of  the  harbor,  and  is  a  place  of  amusement  for  the  inhabitants  of 
Constantinople  and  the  suburbs. 


ARRIVAL  AT  CONSTANTINOPLE  AND  PERA. 


227 


passport.1  The  street  ran  steep  upward,  and  was  just  as  small, 
and  with  just  as  bad  a  pavement  as  at  Galata.  We  went  past 
a  guard  of  young  yellow-brown  lads,  in  tight  blue  jackets  and 
trousers,  with  white  bandolier  and  red  fez.  They  lay  almost 
on  their  stomachs  along  the  street  and  read  their  prayers. 
An  hour-glass  stood  beside  them. 

Under  the  tower  of  Pera,  in  the  moat,  there  lay  flayed  and 
bleeding  horses.  We  passed  Turkish  cafes  where  the  foun- 
tains splashed  in  the  open  room.  The  Dervises'  cloister, 
with  golden  inscriptions  of  the  Alcoran,  placed  in  the  wall 
above  the  gate,  lay  on  our  way  through  the  principal  street, 
which  is  very  small.  The  houses  have  two  and  three  stories, 
and  there  are  porches  before  them  all.  The  side-streets  are 
still  narrower ;  the  buildings  appear  to  meet  above,  so  that  in 
rainy  weather  one  scarcely  needs  an  umbrella  here. 

What  a  swarm  of  beings  !  In  the  midst  of  the  crowd 
there  was  a  Bulgarian  peasant  dancing,  with  a  calot  on  his 
head,  miserable  sandals  on  his  feet,  and  a  long  sheepskin 
jacket  on  his  back.  He  danced  like  a  bear  springing  up  on 
its  hind  legs.  Another  Bulgarian  played  the  bagpipes  for 
him.  Six  or  eight  brown,  muscular  fellows  were  dragging 
along  large  blocks  of  marble,  which  were  placed  on  round 
pieces  of  timber.  They  continually  cried  out  their  "  Make 
way !  "  We  met  Armenian  priests  with  crape  fluttering  from 
their  hats.  Now  sounded  a  mumbling  song  ;  a  young  Greek 
girl  was  borne  along  to  be  buried  ;  she  lay  in  her  customary 
clothes,  and  with  her  face  uncovered  in  the  open  coffin,  which 
was  ornamented  with  flowers.  Three  Greek  priests  and  two 
little  boys,  with  lighted  candles,  walked  before. 

What  a  crowd  !  what  tumult !  Parti-colored  carriages,  look- 
ing like  small  alcoves  made  of  card-board,  gilded  before  and 
behind,  with  long  fluttering  curtains,  from  behind  which  veiled 
women  peeped  out,  rocked  over  the  uneven  pavement.  Horses 
and  asses  laden  with  beams  and  planks  forced  their  way 
through  the  crowd. 

At  length  we  came  to  the  Hotel  de  la  France,  kept  by  Mr. 

1  The  same  was  the  case  on  my  arrival  in  Greece  ;  on  the  contrary,  on 
my  departure  from  Piraeus,  mine  and  every  passenger's  trunk  were  exam- 
ined to  see  if  we  did  not  take  away  any  rtatues. 


228  A  POET'S  BAZAAR. 

Blondel  ;  and,  no  sooner  were  we  within  the  door,  than  every- 
thing  gave  signs  of  European  arrangement  and  convenience. 
French  and  Italian  waiters  ran  up  and  down  stairs,  comfort- 
able rooms  were  before  us,  and  at  the  table  (Thfae  we  dined 
as  well  as  in  any  good  hotel  in  the  larger  cities  of  Europe. 
The  company  was  much  diversified.  The  chief  portion  were 
Franks,  who  came  from  their  travels  in  Asia  Minor,  and  had 
retained  their  Asiatic  dress,  in  which  they  were  most  secure. 
A  few  Prussian  officers,  in  the  Sultan's  army,  were  in  Turkish 
military  surtouts,  and  with  the  high-crowned  fez.  The  noise 
from  the  street  ascended  to  us  in  a  sort  of  mitigated  hiss. 
The  Bulgarian's  bagpipes  sounded ;  a  snuffling  song,  executed 
by  the  poor,  unveiled  women  from  the  mountains,  outroared 
these  tones,  and  then  blared  the  noisy  martial  music,  as  the 
soldiers  came  home  from  parade.  I  knew  the  melody ;  it  was 
the  gallopade  in  Auber's  opera,  "  Gustavus  III." 


VII. 

THE   BAZAARS. 

THE  stranger  ought  first  of  all  to  visit  the  bazaars  *  in  Con- 
stantinople. To  do  so  is  to  enter  into  that  enormous  city  at 
once :  one  is  overwhelmed  with  the  sight,  the  splendor,  and 
the  tumult.  Each  is  a  city  of  bees  that  we  enter ;  but  every 
bee  is  a  Persian,  an  Armenian,  an  Egyptian,  or  a  Greek. 
The  East  and  West  hold  a  great  fair  here.  No  other  city  can 
show  such  a  crowd,  such  a  variety  of  costumes,  or  such  a 
grouping  of  articles  of  trade. 

When  one  goes  over  the  bay  in  a  boat  from  Pera  to  Con- 
stantinople, the  street  that  leads  to  the  bazaars  is  throughout 
on  the  ascent.  It  is  narrow,  winding,  and  crooked.  The 
ground-floors  of  the  houses  on  each  side  resemble  the  wooden 
shops  in  our  markets.  We  can  see  directly  into  the  workshop 
of  the  shoemaker  and  carpenter ;  we  fancy  that  we  go  right 

1  Besestan,  that  is  to  say,  covered  market-places,  are  here  called  the 
bazaars.  There  are,  properly,  three.  The  side-streets  may  be  regarded 
as  entrance  halls. 


THE  BAZAARS. 


229 


through  the  kitchen  and  bakehouse,  there  is  such  a  cooking, 
and  baking  ;  such  a  steam  and  odor  from  the  ovens  and  chim- 
neys in  the  open  houses.  Bread,  and  all  kinds  of  victuals, 
are  exhibited  for  sale. 

We  now  stand  outside  the  great  bazaar,  around  which  small 
half-covered  streets  branch  off  in  different  directions.  One 
quarter  offers  all  kinds  of  fruit  and  vegetables,  both  fresh  and 
preserved  ;  another  has  shell-fish,  and  fish  of  the  most  differ 
ent  colors  and  forms.  Large  pieces  of  sail-cloth,  or  old  car- 
'pets,  are  drawn  across  the  street  from  shop  to  shop,  like  a 
roof.  The  pavement  is  very  bad,  and  the  gutter  is  in  the 
middle  of  the  street. 

A  long  hall,  formed,  for  the  most  part,  of  planks,  and  quite 
filled  with  pipe-heads,  pipe-tubes,  and  mouth-pieces  of  amber, 
leads  into  the  bazaar,  which  is  built  with  thick  fire-proof  walls. 
It  is  an  entire  roofed  town  ;  every  nation  has  its  separate  quar- 
ter :  the  Jews  theirs,  the  Egyptians  theirs,  etc.,  etc.  Every  sort 
of  article  of  trade  has  its  street ;  every  particular  trade  its  de- 
partment, —  the  shoemakers  one,  the  saddlers  one.  and  so  on 
without  end.  Every  street  is  an  arcade  painted  with  flowers 
and  inscriptions  from  the  Koran  ;  the  light  comes  down  from 
the  ceiling.  Shop  is  joined  to  shop,  and  each  seems  like  an 
inverted  chest,  in  the  back  of  which  an  opening  is  cut  in  the 
thick  wall,  where  the  goods  not  exposed  to  view  are  kept. 

The  Egyptians'  quarter  —  Missr-tscharschussi  —  seems  like 
a  complete  apothecary's  shop,  extending  through  two  streets. 
All  the  spices  of  India  and  Arabia,  medicinal  herbs,  and  val- 
uable colors,  exhale  a  mixed  odor.  A  tawny  Egyptian  in  a 
long  talar  stands  behind  the  counter ;  he  looks  like  the  figures 
of  an  alchemist,  such  as  we  have  been  accustomed  to  see  de- 
lineated in  prints. 

Another  arcade  has  the  appearance  of  being  the  entrance 
hall  to  the  world's  armory.  Here  is  the  saddlers'  arcade  ;  sad- 
dles and  bridles  of  morocco  leather  and  buffalo's  skin,  from 
the  most  exquisite  and  curiously  sewed,  to  the  simplest  and 
almost  clumsy,  hang  on  the  walls,  and  are  spread  out  on  the 
counters  and  floor. 

Another  arcade  is  the  jewelers'.  Gold  chains  glitter,  brace- 
lets sparkle,  valuable  rings  and  precious  jewels  dazzle  the  eye. 


2  30 


A    POET'S  BAZAAR. 


We  are  now  got  amongst  a  mass  of  perfumers  ;  here  is  a 
scent  of  oil  of  roses,  musk-bags,  incense,  and  odorous  rats'-tails. 
We  enter  the  next  arcade,  and  see  nothing  but  boots  and 
shoes  in  all  colors,  and  of  all  forms  ;  slippers  glittering  with 
pearls  and  beautiful  embroidery.  Another  arcade  crosses  this, 
and  is  filled  with  all  kinds  of  linen-drapers'  and  mercers'  wares 
such  as  muslins,  handkerchiefs  embroidered  with  large  golden 
flowers,  splendid  stuffs,  etc.  The  next  arcade  glitters  with 
arms, —  Damascus  blades,  daggers,  knives,  guns,  and  pistols. 

It  is  highly  interesting  to  regard  the  characteristic  manner* 
in  which  each  nation  manifests  itself.  The  Turk  sits  seriou 
and  majestic,  with  the  long  pipe  in  his  mouth  ;  the  Jew  and 
the  Greek  are  bustling  ;  they  shout  and  wink  ;  meanwhile  the 
varied  mass  moves  along  through  these  crossing  arcades.  Per- 
sians, with  pointed  hairy  caps  ;  Armenians  with  inverted  cone- 
shaped  black  hats  ;  Bulgarians  in  sheepskin  mantles ;  Jews 
with  ragged  shawl  around  the  black  high-crowned  turban  ; 
smart  Greeks,  and  veiled  women.  Here  is  a  crowd ;  and  in  the 
midst  of  all  this  there  rides  a  Turk  of  distinction,  who  neither 
looks  to  the  right  nor  left. 

On  a  given  signal  in  the  evening,  the  sellers  and  buyers  de- 
part. A  sort  of  watchman,  to  whom  the  charge  of  guarding 
the  bazaars  is  intrusted,  locks  all  the  entrances,  and  opens 
them  again  next  morning  at  a  fixed  time ;  the  sellers  then  find 
their  shops  just  as  they  left  them.  Even  during  the  day  a  sin- 
gle shop  is  never  closed,  otherwise  than  by  the  owner  hanging 
a  net  before  it ;  or  he  draws  a  few  pieces  of  pack-thread  across, 
for  there  no  one  ventures  to  steal.  The  magnificent  shops  of 
the  Palais  Royal,  in  comparison  with  the  bazaars  of  Constan- 
tinople, are  as  a  richly  dressed  grisette  compared  to  the 
daughter  of  the  East  in  her  rich  stuffs,  with  her  hair  shedding 
the  perfumes  of  attar  of  roses  and  myrrh. 


A  RAMBLE   THROUGH  CONSTANTINOPLE.        23! 
VIII. 

A  RAMBLE   THROUGH  CONSTANTINOPLE. 

WE  have  seen  the  bazaars,  the  heart  of  ancient  Stamuoul  \ 
we  will  now  take  a  short  ramble  and  begin  with  what  was  for- 
merly called  a  "  forbidden  road  "  for  the  Christian,  namely,  the 
female  slave-market ;  then  to  one  of  the  mosques,  the  permis- 
sion to  enter  which  is  now  easily  obtained  :  but  the  presents 
that  are  to  be  given  to  the  different  persons  in  office  from 
whom  this  permission  proceeds  amount  to  not  a  small  sum 
of  money ;  still  amongst  the  strangers  in  Pera  there  is  often 
an  ambassador,  or  rich  man,  who  willingly  pays  this  tribute. 
The  guides  always  know  the  particulars,  and  then  we  apply  to 
him  who  has  the  granting  of  the  permission,  which  is  always 
given  for  the  person  and  suite. 

Thus  we  now  belong  to  the  suite  of  a  rich  American  ;  but 
we  must  go  on  horseback,  for  it  looks  more  pompous,  and  the 
Turks  pay  great  regard  to  pomp  and  magnificence.  A  few 
soldiers,  also  mounted,  accompany  the  procession. 

Not  far  from  the  great  bazaar,  we  come  to  a  place  surrounded 
by  wooden  buildings,  forming  an  open  gallery  ;  the  jutting  roof 
is  supported  by  rough  beams ;  inside,  along  the  gallery,  are 
small  chambers  where  traders  stow  their  goods,  —  and  these 
goods  are  human  beings  —  black  and  white  female  slaves. 

We  are  now  in  the  square  ;  the  sun  shines ;  rush  mats  are 
spread  out  under  the  green  trees,  and  there  sit  and  lie  Asia's 
daughters.  A  young  mother  gives  the  breast  to  her  child, 
and  they  will  separate  these  two.  On  the  stairs  leading  to  the 
gallery  sits  a  young  negress  not  more  than  fourteen  years  of 
age  ;  she  is  almost  naked  ;  an  old  Turk  regards  her.  He  has 
taken  one  of  her  legs  in  his  hand  ;  she  laughs,  and  shows  her 
shining  white  teeth. 

Do  not  veil  the  beautiful  white  women,  thou  hideous  old 
wretch  ;  it  is  these  we  wish  to  see ;  drive  them  not  into  the 
cage  ;  we  shall  not,  as  thou  thinkest,  abash  them  with  bold  eyes. 

See  !  a  young  Turk  with  fiery  looks  ;  four  slaves  follow  him  ; 
two  old  Jewesses  are  trading  with  him.  Some  charming 
Tscherkasier  girls  have  come  ;  he  will  see  them  dance,  hear 


232 


A  POET'S  BAZAAR. 


them  sing,  and  then  choose  and  buy  !  He  could  give  us  a  de- 
scription of  the  slave-market,  such  as  we  are  not  able  to  offer. 
He  follows  the  old  women  to  behold  the  earth's  houris  ;  and 
how  do  they  look  ?  The  Turkish  poet  Ibn  Karib  has  sung 
about  the  heavenly  beings,  and  of  these  we  perhaps  dare  hear, 
remembering  that  he  borrowed  the  picture  from  the  earthly. 

"  Know,  a  houri  is  a  beauty,  black  of  eye  and  white  of  cheek  ; 

Eyebrows  small,  lashes  long  ;  her  locks  with  fragrant  odors  teem  ; 
Varied  brightness  dwells  in  each,  just  like  pearls  in  mussel  shells, 
Their  lustre  changes  every  minute  !    Here  is  color  without  equal, 
Here  is  beauty,  here  is  grace ;  here  are  heaven's  choicest  roses ! 
The  mountain's  snow  and  ocean's  foam  of  their  whiteness  are  ashamed, 
No  earthly  fruits,  nor  earthly  roses,  can  these  cheeks  and  mouth  resem- 
ble. 

What  are  pearls  and  what  are  jewels  to  the  foot's  musk-dust  compared  ? 
Some  are  dark  and  others  light,  like  two  species  of  bright  rubies  : 
This  gives  only  stolen  glances,  the  other  sends  them  in  long  looks. 
If  a  houri  showed  herself  here,  earth  would  stand  in  rays  of  light ; 
If  she  had  her  lips  half  opened,  man  would  praise  th'  Almighty's  power. 
More  than  worlds  the  veil  conceals,  for  it  does  her  eyes  secrete  : 
Formed  of  light  the  houris  are,  and  cannot  like  the  dust  be  changed. 
Always  young,  always  !  "  — 

But  we  shall  do  best  to  ride  away  from  Ibn  Katib  and  Con- 
stantinople's slave-market ! 

We  stop  at  the  Church  of  St.  Sophia  ;  it  is  a  heavy,  irregular 
building.  Constantine  the  Great  had  it  erected  and  conse- 
crated to  the  holy  wisdom,  "  Aja  Sophia."  Rare  and  sin- 
gular relics  were  preserved  here :  the  Samaritan  well  ;  three 
doors  covered  with  planks  from  Noah's  ark  ;  the  angels' 
trumpets,  said  to  have  been  used  at  the  siege  of  Jericho: 
but  these  curiosities  have  disappeared.  Aja  Sophia  sank 
twice  under  the  flames,  and  once  by  an  earthquake,  but  always 
rose  again  in  renewed  splendor.  On  the  nights  of  the  Rama- 
zan,  when  the  almost  flat  cupola  is  illuminated  with  ostrich 
egg  lamps,  and  the  whole  congregation  in  motley  splendor  lie 
outstretched  on  their  faces,  the  church  flatters  itself  with  vis- 
ions of  the  coronations  of  emperors,  espousals,  synods,  and 
church  meetings ;  it  dreams  of  that  night  of  terror  when  its 
gates  were  forced,  and  the  Christian  altars  profaned  ;  it  still 
hears  the  sound  of  "There  is  but  one  God  and  Moham- 
med is  his  prophet!"  as  it  heard  it  that  night  from  the  lips 


A  RAMBLE    THROUGH  CONSTANTINOPLE.        233 

of  the  emperor  Mohammed  when  it  was  transformed  into  a 
mosque. 

What  strange  dreams  —  the  history  of  whole  generations 
'of  mankind  —  are  enacted  there,  as  though  they  were  reali- 
ties!  Perhaps  thou  also  dreamest  of  the  future,  Aja  Sophia! 
or  hast  a  foreboding  like  that  which  moves  amongst  the  people 
within.  Shall  the  obliterated  Cross  on  the  door  again  be  re- 
newed ?  Shall  the  altar  be  removed  from  the  corner  toward 
Mecca,  and  take  its  place  again  toward  the  East  ?  The  Mus- 
sulman points  to  a  walled-up  door  in  the  uppermost  gallery  of 
the  church  and  whispers  a  tradition  from  that  night,  when  a 
Christian  priest  was  hewed  down  before  the  altar  behind  this 
door.  If  the  Christians  once  more  become  masters  here,  and 
Ishmael's  race  pass  into  Asia,  which  already  holds  its  dead, 
every  stone  in  the  doorway  will  fall,  and  the  Christian  priest 
will  stand  there  again  and  sing  the  mass  in  which  he  stopped 
when  the  death-blow  struck  him.  When  the  mass  is  ended 
the  dead  priest  will  vanish,  and  Christian  hymns  sound  through 
the  church. 

It  is  strange  to  wander  here,  followed  by  armed  men,  and 
regarded  with  angry  looks  by  the  praying  visitants,  as  if  we 
were  excommunicated  spirits. 

Magnificent  pillars  are  seen  here.  The  eight  of  porphyry 
once  stood  under  the  cupola  of  the  Temple  of  the  Sun  in  Baal- 
bee  ;  the  green  were  brought  from  the  Temple  of  Diana  in 
Ephesus.  We  read  under  the  cupola,  in  letters  twelve  feet 
long,  an  inscription  from  the  Alcoran  :  "  God  is  the  light  of 
heaven  and  earth  !  " 

Look  not  so  angrily  at  us,  thou  old  priest ;  thy  God  is  also 
our  God  !  Nature's  temple  is  the  joint  house  of  God  for  us  ; 
thou  kneelest  toward  Mecca  ;  we  toward  the  East !  "  God 
is  the  light  of  heaven  and  earth  !  "  He  enlightens  every  mind 
and  every  heart ! 

We  depart  from  Aja  Sophia ;  a  short  street  leads  us  to  Al- 
meidan,  the  largest  and  handsomest  square  in  Constantinople. 
Yet  it  was  once  far  more  splendid. 

Here  was  the  Hippodrome  which  Constantine  ornamented 
with  colonnades  and  statues ;  here  stood  the  proud  bronze 
horses,  that  now  find  a  place  in  Venice  over  the  entrance  to 


234  ^   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

St.  Mark's  Church;1  here  stood  the  colossal  statue  of  Her- 
cules, every  finger  of  which  was  equal  to  a  man  in  circumfer- 
ence. Only  three  monuments  of  former  times  are  now  to  be 
found  here.  The  first  is  a  little  column  formed  of  three  en- 
twined copper  snakes.  They  were  once  the  pedestal  for  the 
oracle's  tripod  in  Delphi ;  the  Turks  regarded  it  as  a  talisman 
for  the  Greek  kingdom,  and  therefore  Mohammed  II.  cut  off 
the  head  of  one  of  the  snakes,  with  his  battle-axe  ;  the  Eng- 
lish stole  the  two  others,  and  the  Turkish  boys  now  use  the 
ore-green  remains  as  a  target. 

A  few  paces  from  hence  rises  an  obelisk  of  porphyry,  cov- 
ered with  hieroglyphics  ;  it  came  from  Egypt  through  Athens ; 
and  it  stands  unchanged,  as  if  protected  by  the  invisible 
gods  of  Egypt 

The  third  monument  here  is  a  square  stone  column  of  im- 
mense size.  It  threatens  to  fall.  It  is  Constantine's  pillar, 
and  was  once  covered  with  plates  of  gilded  copper  ;  we  now 
see  only  the  iron  rings  that  held  them  together. 

These  are  the  remains  of  the  Hippodrome's  splendor.  Yet 
this  is  still  the  finest  place  in  the  city :  its  extent,  and  the 
Mosque  of  Sultan  Achmet,  blind  our  eyes.  Behind  the  shin- 
ing white  wall,  with  the  gilt  trellised  windows,  there  are  high 
plantains  and  cypresses ;  within  the  walls,  by  the  gilded 
grave-columns,  are  splashing  fountains.  It  is  a  little  grove, 
where  the  Mussulmen  and  women  pace  silently.  The  broad 
steps  lead  up  to  Achmet's  Mosque,  where  all  is  marble  — 
even  the  six  high  minarets,  lifting  their  balustrades  one  above 
the  other,  and  ornamented  with  carved  railings :  golden  balls 
glitter  on  the  cupolas  ;  the  Crescent  shines  on  the  minarets ; 
it  is  beautiful  to  behold. 

And  yet  we  depart  from  it.  A  crooked  little  street  leads 
us  to  a  fantastic  building,  where  everything  is  marble  and 
gold.  See  how  it  shines  against  the  blue,  transparent  air. 
Plantains,  cypresses,  and  flowering  rose-hedges  form  a  little 
garden  behind  the  ornamented  walls,  with  splendid  windows, 
and  artificial  carvings.  The  building  itself  is  certainly  Fata 

1  They  came  from  Athens  to  Chios,  then  to  Constantinople  ;  from  thence 
thiy  were  taken  to  Venice.  Napoleon  had  them  brought  to  Paris ;  and 
now  they  are  again  in  Venice. 


A   RAMBLE    THROUGH  CONSTffTlN'OPLE. 


235 


Morgana's  own  bed-chamber,  it  is  so  light  and  airy,  though 
built  of  marble.  The  columns,  cornice,  and  roof  beam  with 
ornaments  and  colors.  We  ascend  the  stairs,  which  go  round 
the  whole  building ;  we  look  through  the  large  panes,  between 
a  gilt  trellis,  and  see  a  round,  airy  house  ;  the  eye  is  blinded 
with  the  magnificence  of  the  East !  Is  it  a  bridal-chamber  for 
the  first  Pasha  of  the  land  ?  No,  it  is  a  tomb  !  It  is  Sultan 
Mahmoud's  tomb.1  In  the  middle  of  the  floor  stands  his  cof- 
fin, covered  with  valuable  shawls  of  various  colors  ;  his  rich 
turban  glittering  with  jewels  and  with  a  feather  that  seems 
plaited  of  rays,  is  laid  on  the  coffin  where  his  head  rests. 
Small  coffins  stand  around  it  in  a  circle  ;  in  each  of  them  re- 
poses one  of  his  children  ;  they  are  all  hidden  by  rich  carpets. 
Two  priests  stare  at  us,  and  raise  their  hands  in  a  threaten- 
ing posture  :  "  The  Christian  man  must  not  see  a  Believer's 
grave  !  "  say  they  ;  the  censer  swings,  and  the  blue  smoke  of 
the  incense  rises  in  the  sunbeams  toward  the  splendid  roof. 

A  tent  was  spread  over  Mahmoud's  coffin,  after  they  had 
brought  it  hither.  Rich  and  poor  were  permitted  to  enter ; 
old  men  wept,  so  beloved  was  he :  he  who  had  overthrown  the 
Janizaries,  and  introduced  the  discipline  and  clothing  of  the 
Franks.  The  building  was,  meanwhile,  erected  around  the 
tent,  as  we  now  see  it.  When  the  cupola  was  placed,  and 
when  the  Crescent  shone  in  the  sun's  rays,  the  tent  was  first 
taken  from  over  the  coffin,  which  was  wet  with  tears. 

But  now  we  are  tired  of  rambling  and  sight-seeing ;  there 
is  a  day  to-morrow,  when  we  will  go  to  the  caravanserai  — 
that  mighty  stone  colossus  which  contains  the  rich  wares  from 
the  cities  of  Asia.  We  will  go  to  the  magnificent  aqueduct, 
where  the  creeping  plants  hang  between  the  large  square 
stones  ;  we  will  visit  a  Turkish  bath  : 2  nay,  perhaps  try  one. 

See,  this  is  our  day's  ramble  in  Constantinople  ! 

1  Abdul  Medjid's  father. 

2  The  bathing-houses  have  cupolas  like  the  mosques,  into  which  the 
light  descends  through  large  glass  bells.     In  the  foremost  saloon,  where 
we  undress,  there  is  a  fountain,  and  along  the  walls  there  are  divans  ;  we 
enter  through  a  warmer  room  into  the  bathing  saloon,  which  is  of  marble, 
with  high  columns.    The  floor  is  heated,  so  that  we  must  walk  in  wooden 
slippers  •  a  hot  steam  fills  the  whole  saloon. 


236  A  POETS  BAZAAR. 

IX. 

THE    DERVISES'    DANCE. 

IT  is  well  known  that  the  Turks,  speaking  generally,  regard 
all  imbecile  persons  as  inspired  by  a  divine  spirit  Therefore 
the  insane  have  places  in  the  mosques.  The  terrible  Isani 
are  objects  of  respect  and  awe ;  the  Dervises  are  included  in 
this  category  by  reason  of  their  dance,  which  is  a  positive  self- 
torture.  They  chew  a  sort  of  intoxicating  root,  which  in- 
creases their  delirium. 

The  dervises  who  have  their  cloister  in  Scutari  are  called 
"  Ruhanis,"  which  signifies  "  the  howling."  The  dervises  in 
Pera  are  named  "  Mewlewis,"  that  is,  "  the  turning."  They 
usually  dance  on  Thursdays  and  Fridays.  I  have  seen  these 
dances,  and  will  try  to  give  a  description  of  them,  and  of  the 
impression  the  whole  ceremony,  in  their  cloister,  made  on  me. 

A  traveller,  with  whom  I  sailed  over  to  Scutari  to  see  the 
Dervises,  prepossessed  me  particularly  by  his  accounts  of  the 
dance  of  the  Isani,  which  resemble  them.  The  traveller  came 
from  Tripoli,  where,  as  on  the  whole  coast  of  Africa,  in  all  the 
mosques  there  are  found,  under  a  sort  of  guard,  whole  crowds 
of  these  creatures.  On  a  certain  day  in  the  year  it  is  made 
known  that  the  Isani  will  dance  through  the  streets,  and  then 
every  one  locks  his  door.  No  Christian  or  Jew  ventures  out, 
or  he  might,  on  meeting  this  wild  procession,  although  it  is 
under  guard,  be  torn  to  pieces  alive.  Dogs,  cats,  every  fowl 
that  comes  in  their  way,  they  tear  to  pieces,  swallowing  the 
reeking  limbs. 

"  I  was  last  year,  on  that  very  day  (the  day  for  the  insane) 
in  Tripoli,"  said  the  stranger.  "  I  obtained  a  place  on  the 
flat  roof  of  our  Consul's  house.  All  the  gates  and  doors  in 
the  street  were  well  fastened  ;  the  procession  approached  ;  a 
crowd  of  well-armed  horse  soldiers  surrounded  the  furious 
mob,  which,  with  the  exception  of  a  belt,  were  completely 
naked.  Their  long,  jet-black  hair  hung  down  over  their  shoul- 
ders. They  made  strange  little  jumps,  and  uttered  a  wild 
howl,  constantly  throwing  the  head  forward,  and  then  back 
again,  so  that  the  long  hair  sometimes  concealed  the  face,  and 


THE  DER  VISES'  DANCE. 


237 


sometimes  fluttered  about  with  frightful  wildness.  The  hor 
rid  screams  were  accompanied  by  the  music  of  drums  and 
bagpipes ;  and  as  they  sprang  forward,  they  now  and  then 
stooped  down,  took  up  a  loose  flint,  and  cut  deep  gashes  in 
their  breasts  and  arms  with  it  In  order  to  see  the  wildness 
of  the  Isanis,  we  ordered  a  Moorish  slave  to  bind  a  living  goat 
outside  the  house  where  we  stood.  As  the  crowd  came  on, 
the  Moor  was  directed  to  kill  the  animal :  he  stuck  his  dagger 
into  its  neck,  and  then  sprang  in  behind  the  door.  The  goat 
sprawled  in  its  blood,  and  at  the  same  time,  the  howling  Isa- 
nis pressed  forward.  One  of  them  thrust  his  hand  into  the 
bleeding  wound,  lifted  the  goat  up  with  a  howl,  tore  it  in 
pieces,  and  flung  the  bleeding  entrails  up  against  the  walls  of 
the  house.  The  whole  crowd  fell  upon  the  animal,  and  liter- 
ally ate  the  flesh,  hide,  and  hair  !  " 

During  this  relation  we  crossed  the  Bosphorus.  I  only 
repeat  what  was  told  me ;  and  it  was  the  prelude  to  the  fancy 
which  seized  me  of  going  to  the  cloister,  and  seeing  what  was 
to  be  enacted  there. 

We  were  now  in  Scutari,  a  city  that  has  a  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  inhabitants  —  twenty  thousand  more  than  Copen- 
hagen ;  yet  it  is  only  regarded  as  a  suburb  of  Constantinople. 
Here  everything  is  old  Mohammedan.  Here  live,  if  we  may 
dare  to  call  them  so,  the  orthodox  Turks.  A  few  well  armed, 
half-naked  Arabs  drove  their  laden  camels  from  the  shore, 
through  the  street,  toward  the  large  burial-ground.  A  long 
walk  began  ;  we  followed  them,  and  stopped  at  a  remote 
corner  of  the  city,  at  a  poor,  insignificant  house.  This  was 
the  dervises'  cloister. 

The  door  was  not  yet  open  ;  we  had  come  too  early,  and 
therefore  went  to  the  neighboring  cafes  which  extend  straight 
np  to  the  immense  cypress  forest,  where  the  dead  rest.  A  num- 
ber of  Turks,  military  and  civilian,  sat  outside  the  cafes  under 
the  gi  een  leaf  trees.  Some  of  them  were  here  to  take  part  in 
the  dervises'  dance,  or,  like  us,  to  see  it.  An  ugly  old  dwarf 
sat  there  ;  they  said  that  he  was  a  zealous  Ruhani,  and  that  I 
should  soon  see  him  amongst  the  dancers.  He  was  said  to 
be  very  rich,  and  had  twelve  handsome  wives  in  his  seraglio. 
He  had  his  son  with  hirr  in  the  cafe —  a  fine  boy,  who  was  as 
tall  as  his  father. 


238  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

At  length  the  door  of  the  cloister  was  opened.  We  went 
over  to  it,  and  came  into  a  broad  front  hall,  divided  into  two 
parts  by  a  woolen  carpet ;  here  it  looked  like  the  shed  before 
the  out-building  where  they  exhibit  wild  animals  in  our  pro- 
vincial towns.  Every  one  was  obliged  to  pull  off  his  boots 
or  shoes,  which  were  set  up  behind  the  curtain. 

My  companion,  the  traveller,  who  had  been  in  Tripoli, 
took  a  pair  of  morocco  slippers  out  of  his  pocket,  pulled 
them  over  his  boots,  and  in  this  manner  entered  ;  but  the 
Turks  looked  angrily  at  him  and  spoke  to  themselves.  I  had 
straps  sewed  fast  to  my  trousers,  so  that  it  was  difficult  to  get 
the  boots  off;  but  as  one  ought  to  follow  the  custom  of  a 
country  or  fly  the  land,  I  took  my  knife  out,  at  once  cut  the 
straps  in  two,  and  walked  in  like  the  Turks  in  my  socks.  An 
old  man  with  a  turban  on  nodded  mildly  and  said  something 
which  my  interpreter  translated  for  me, —  "  That  I  was  a  good 
man  who  respected  their  religion,  and  deserved  to  be  a  Turk  !  " 
"  God  enlighten  thee  !  "  were  his  last  words. 

I  now  entered  the"  temple  itself,  if  it  can  be  so  called.  It 
formed  a  square  hall ;  above  was  a  well-grated  gallery  for  the 
women  ;  at  the  bottom  was  a  barrier  of  rough  boards  round 
about ;  within  was  the  dancing  place,  which  for  the  moment  was 
covered  with  red,  white,  and  blue  colored  skins  ;  on  these  lay 
a  number  of  dervises  on  their  stomachs.  They  were  clothed  in 
the  customary  dress  of  the  Turks,  yet  there  were  also  many  in 
the  new  regulation  dresses,  military  frocks  and  high,  large  fez. 
They  touched  the  floor  with  their  foreheads  ;  now  and  then 
they  raised  their  heads  ;  but  as  if  something  terrified  them, 
they  struck  their  heads  quickly  down  again.  I  stood  in  my 
socks  on  the  cold  stone  floor,  and  shifted  the  one  foot  on  to 
the  instep  of  the  other,  to  get  a  little  warmth  in  them.  It  was 
by  no  means  pleasant. 

Large  frames  with  Turkish  inscriptions,  and  pictures  repre- 
senting buildings,  hung  down  the  centre  wall.  Here  also 
hung  tambourines,  cymbals,  and  iron  scourges  with  sharp 
spikes  to  tear  the  skin  with.  In  the  middle  of  the  wall  was  a 
niche,  which  served  as  an  altar,  the  same  as  in  the  mosques ; 
in  front  of  this  stood  an  ecclesiastic  in  blue  talar,  green  tur- 
ban, and  with  a  long  white  beard.  He  swung  a  censer  with 


THE  DER  VISES  DANCE. 


239 


burning  incense,  and  uttered  some  Turkish  words  in  a  strange, 
guttural  manner.  And  now  some  of  them  began  a  song  with 
chorus,  —  I  say  a  song,  but  that  is  not  the  right  word  for  such 
a  noise.  It  was  a  sound  that  was  something  so  peculiarly 
wild,  changing  in  different  rhymes  —  a  sort  of  scale  —  a  sin- 
gular running  up  of  notes  with  the  throat,  quite  as  a  savage 
with  a  musical  ear  would  have  imitated  a  bravura  in  his  way, 
after  having  heard  it  for  the  first  time.  It  was  more  horri- 
ble than  really  inharmonious  to  hear. 

After  the  dervises  had  touched  the  floor  several  times  with 
their  foreheads,  they  arose,  kissed  the  priest's  hand,  and  placed 
themselves  in  a  semicircle  along  the  barrier  that  separated 
them  from  the  spectators. 

The  dance  began.  At  the  same  time  there  came  a  man 
whose  appearance  was  calculated  to  excite  the  greatest  horror  I 
have  ever  as  yet  seen  any  human  being  capable  of  producing. 
He  was  accompanied  by  two  dervises  from  Pera,  so  easily 
known  by  their  high  crowned  felt  hats  without  a  brim.  I  have 
never  seen  a  man  in  whom  insanity  was  so  clearly  visible  in 
the  eyes  as  this.  The  other  dancers  had  laid  their  turbans 
and  fez  in  the  niche,  and  each  had  put  on  a  white  felt  calot  or 
cap ;  it  was  in  such  a  one  that  the  madman  entered,  who,  my 
guide  informed  me,  was  a  hermit  from  the  neighborhood  of 
Medina.  His  black,  wiry  hair,  hung  far  down  over  his  back 
and  shoulders  ;  he  had  on  a  white  cloak,  on  which  was  sewed 
two  winged  horses  of  red  stuff;  he  placed  himself  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  semicircle.  All  stood  as  if  their  feet  were  nailed 
fast,  but  as  if  a  steam-engine  set  the  other  limbs  in  motion  : 
every  joint  moved  in  the  same  direction,  first  forward,  then 
backward  ;  now  to  the  right,  then  to  the  left ;  and  all  during 
a  song  or  recitation  —  whatever  we  may  choose  to  call  it  — 
first  slowly  and  then  in  quicker  and  quicker  time  —  the  song 
as  well  as  the  motion  ;  so  that  by  degrees  the  dancers  fell  into 
wild,  nay,  almost  obscene  postures. 

Two  young  Turks  sat  cross-legged  outside  the  semicircle  and 
led  the  song,  which  rose  continually  with  a  monotonous  into- 
nation on  the  third  syllable.  They  ran  through  the  whole  of 
Mohammed's  race,  from  Abdallah  to  Mohammed,  and  the  cho- 
rus was  :  "  La  illah  !  illalah  !  "  At  .ast  it  sounded  like  a  dull 


2,1O  A    POET'S  BAZAAR. 

howl,  a  snoring,  or  death  rattle.  Some  were  pale  as  death ; 
others  were  deep  red ;  the  water  streamed  down  from  all  their 
faces.  The  hermit  now  threw  off  his  cloak,  and  stood  in  a  red 
woolen  blouse  with  sleeves  extending  over  his  hands,  and  with 
naked  legs ;  he  was  soon  in  a  state  of  madness,  and  tore  his 
tight  blouse,  striking  his  breast  with  his  naked  arms.  One  of 
his  hands  was  withered,  probably  his  own  doing ;  his  mouth 
was  one  bleeding  wound ;  both  his  lips  had  lately  been  cut  off, 
so  that  the  white  teeth  grinned ;  it  was  horrible  to  look  at ! 
His  mouth  began  to  bleed,  his  eyes  rolled,  and  the  veins  in 
his  forehead  swelled.  The  dance  became  more  and  more 
violent,  and  yet  not  one  moved  an  inch  from  his  place.  They 
seemed  not  to  be  men,  but  machines.  They  no  longer  spoke 
words:  words  were  lost  in  a  short  howl.  "Jehovah" 
sounded  like"Je — hu!"  in  the  rest  of  the  song,  "Ja — med!" 
"O  help!"  most  distinctly.  It  was  like  a  death  groan — it 
was  frightful ;  and  the  more  I  looked  at  the  dancers,  the 
more  I  felt  that  I  was  in  a  mad-house  amongst  the  insane. 
"  Ja — hu  !  ja — hu  !  "  was  the  wild,  howling  cry. 

My  companion  whispered  to  me :  "  For  Heaven's  sake  do 
not  laugh,  or  we  are  undone !  they  will  murder  us  !  " 

"  Laugh !  "  I  replied  :  "  I  am  ready  to  weep  !  It  is  afflicting 
—  it  is  shocking  !  I  cannot  bear  it  any  longer ! " 

I  sought  the  door  in  haste,  and  at  the  same  moment  some 
of  the  dancers  fell  to  the  ground. 

When  I  was  out  in  the  street,  I  still  heard  the  wild  howl  : 
"  Ja— hu  !  ja— hu  " 

How  beautiful,  how  warm  it  was  without  in  the  clear  sunshine. 
The  light  boat,  thin  as  a  shaving,  darted  from  the  coast  of 
Asia  toward  Europe,  over  the  rapid  current,  past  sailing  vesels 
and  boats.  The  least  shock,  and  we  must  have  upset ;  but 
of  that  I  thought  not ;  we  came  from  the  dwelling  of  terror, 
and  here  all  was  nature  and  gladness. 

The  day  after,  I  visited  the  Mewlewis,  the  turning  dervises 
in  Pera.  They  have  their  own  peculiar  dress,  and  a  fine  airy 
Cloister.  Everything  shows  that  they  stand  in  a  higher  rank 
ihan  the  Ruhanis.  The  entrance  to  the  cloister  is  near  the 
burial-ground,  toward  the  principal  street  in  Pera.  There  are 
•ome  high  cypresses  in  the  court-yard.  The  cloister  itself  i» 
separated  from  the  temple  where  they  dance. 


THE  DER  VISES'  DANCE.  24! 

An  old  Armenian  accompanied  me  thither ;  the  yard  was 
filled  with  women,  but  they  durst  not  enter  the  temple  itself. 
I  saw  several  young  dervises  through  the  open  windows  of  the 
cloister,  exercising  themselves  in  turning  round. 

The  soldiers  on  guard  winked  to  us  while  we  stood  in  the 
yard.  We  were  obliged  to  take  off  our  boots,  and  were  then 
conducted  into  the  gallery  which  extends  around  the  saloon, 
and  which  was  covered  with  mats.  Everything  was  clean  and 
handsome :  the  view  through  the  open  windows  to  Scutari  and 
the  distant  Asiatic  mountains  certainly  contributed  much  to  the 
embellishment :  every  window  afforded  a  splendid  diorama. 

The  gallery  I  entered  was  quite  filled  with  Turks  ;  but  when 
they  saw  me,  a  stranger,  they  all  made  way  directly,  and  pushed 
each  other  aside,  so  that  I  might  come  freely  up  to  the  barrier. 
Here,  and  everywhere  else,  I  must  praise  the  civility  of  the 
Turks. 

The  festival  now  began.  A  crowd  of  dervises  entered  ; 
they  were  all  barefooted,  and  each  of  them  was  wrapped  up 
in  a  large,  dark-green  cloak  ;  a  white  felt  hat,  certainly  an  ell 
high,  and  entirely  without  a  brim,  covered  the  head.  One  of 
the  eldest,  with  a  long  white  beard,  placed  himself  in  the 
middle  of  the  hall,  crossed  his  arms,  and  said  a  prayer, 
accompanied  by  low,  monotonous  music  —  two  notes  on  the 
flute,  and  but  one,  and  the  same  note,  on  the  drums ;  it 
sounded  almost  like  the  regular  splashing  of  a  fountain. 
All  the  other  dervises  went  slowly  in  a  circle  around  the  old 
man. 

They  now  threw  off  their  cloaks,  and  each  appeared  in  an 
open,  dark-green  jacket,  with  long,  narrow  sleeves  ;  a  long 
skirt  of  the  same  stuff  and  color  hung  down  to  the  ankles, 
and  fell  in  large  folds  around  their  legs.  They  extended  their 
arms  and  turned  round,  always  to  the  same  side :  their  skirts 
stood  in  the  air  like  a  funnel  about  them. 

In  the  centre  of  the  circle  stood  two  dervises,  who  con- 
tinued to  turn  to  the  same  side,  and  always  on  the  same  spot ; 
the  others  turned  round  about  them  in  a  whirling  dance  ;  the 
eldest  with  a  long  beard,  walked  quietly  between  those  that 
formed  the  outer  circle,  and  the  two  in  the  middle.  The 
dance  was  intended  to  represent  the  course  of  the  planets. 
16 


242  A  POET'S  BAZAAR. 

A  low,  monotonous  song  was  heard  from  a  closed  gallery 
above  us  ;  the  drum  and  fife  continued  a  sleepy  music,  whilst 
the  dancers  uninterruptedly  continued  their  turning  round 
to  the  same  side,  and  always  keeping  the  same  time.  They 
looked  just  like  lifeless  figures  :  not  a  feature  was  changed, 
but  all  were  pale  as  death. 

There  was  a  heavy  blow  on  the  drum,  when  they  suddenly 
stood  still  as  if  struck  by  lightning.  They  mumbled  a  short 
prayer  ;  the  monotonous  music  began  again,  and  again  they  all 
turned  to  the  same  side  as  before.  We  became  giddy  by  look- 
ing at  them  :  they  turned  and  turned.  Now  one  tottered  ;  the 
fife  and  drum  then  sounded  in  quicker  time,  and  the  one 
who  tottered  whirled  still  quicker  round,  always  wilder  and 
quicker ;  it  was  not  possible  to  bear  the  sight  of  it !  This 
dance  lasted  a  whole  hour ;  but  there  was  nothing  horrifying 
in  it.  It  might  almost  be  called  graceful ;  one  had  only  to 
forget  that  they  were  men,  to  believe  that  they  were  puppets. 
The  dance,  in  unison  with  the  low  sameness  of  the  music, 
gave  the  whole  the  character  of  silent  insanity,  which  affected 
more  than  disturbed  the  spirits.  The  whole  performance 
could  scarcely  be  called  edifying :  it  appeared  to  me  like  a 
sort  of  ballet,  whereas  the  dance  of  the  dervises  in  Scutari 
remained  in  my  memory  like  a  scene  in  a  mad-house. 


A  TURKISH   SKETCH. 

WHEN  we  descend  from  Pera,  and  pass  between  the  cy- 
presses of  the  church-yard,  we  come  to  a  little  quarter  which 
must  be  regarded  as  belonging  to  Galata,  although  it  lies  out- 
side the  walls.  Here  is  a  real  Turkish  street,  where  the 
efforts  of  modern  enterprise  are  not  yet  to  be  traced.  This 
street  runs  somewhat  angularly  ;  its  breadth  is  so  great  that 
an  ass,  with  its  panniers,  can  pass  through ;  it  is  not  paved, 
and  after  rain  it  seems  to  be  a  muddy  brook,  in  which  they 
have  driven  piles  and  laid  a  plank  on  them. 

All  the  houses  are  made  of  wood,  and  two   stories   high 


A    TURKISH  SKETCH. 

the  ground-floor  presents  to  view  an  open  shop,  without  win 
dows  or  doors  —  in  fact,  an  inverted  chest ;  and  there,  on  the 
raised  floor,  sits  the  Turk,  with  his  long  pipe,  his  articles  of 
sale  hanging  round  about.  The  old  Turks,  in  their  parti-coi- 
ored  dresses,  and  generally  with  a  noble  countenance  adorned 
by  a  long  beard,  sit  here  the  day  through.  .There  is  no  chatter- 
ing here.  Every  house  might  be  taken  for  a  wooden  shed 
before  a  wax  cabinet,  and  we  have  the  wax  figure  in  the  owner 
himself.  A  pack  of  dogs,  without  masters,  are  fighting  iu  the 
middle  of  the  street;  another  pack  are  devouring  a  carcass 
that  lies  there.  I  give  the  picture  as  I  have  seen  it.  Five  or 
six  little  Turkish  boys,  almost  naked  —  one,  at  least,  has  only 
a  turban  on  —  skip  about,  with  a  wild  howl,  around  a  dead 
horse,  which,  as  the  hide  is  flayed  off,  lies  there  in  a  corner, 
reeking,  and  stretching  its  four  legs  in  the  air.  A  naked  brat 
gets  up  to  ride  on  the  raw  animal,  and  then  jumps  about :  it 
is  an  original  sight ! 

But  is  there  no  ray  of  poetry  in  all  this  filth  ?  I  answer,  Yes  ; 
for  I  remember  the  large  vines  which,  on  some  of  the  houses, 
stretch  their  thick  stems  up  the  wooden  wall,  and  spread  like 
a  leafy  roof  over  the  street  to  the  neighbor's  house,  which  it 
decks  with  its  green  leaves !  I  remember  the  well-grated  up- 
per story,  which  incloses  the  women  and  hides  them  from  the 
stranger's  gaze.  There  is  poetry.  The  Turk  himself,  the 
yellow  opium-eater,  who  sits  in  red  trousers  and  bright  yellow 
caftan  with  green  turban,  is  a  living  poem ;  he  sits  cross- 
legged  with  half-closed  eyes  and  trembling  lips  •  my  eye  reads 
the  quivering  leaves  of  the  spiritual  work  ;  and  it  runs  thus  :  — 

"  See  how  the  vine  winds  its  tendrils  !  Its  leaf  is  green  as 
my  turban  ;  its  juice  is  red  as  my  blood  !  But  the  prophet  has 
said  that  the  juice  and  the  blood  shall  not  mingle  !  To  drink 
wine  is  a  sin  ;  wine  is  for  Christians  and  Jews  !  But  the 
opium  root  is  Solomon's  ring !  It  is  better  than  wine  in  my 
mouth ;  it  becomes  a  mountain  with  grapes  and  sunshine ! 
Every  sorrow  exhales  away  !  I  feel  myself  so  hale  I  become 
so  glad  ;  I  become  wild  ;  I  hover  and  fly !  The  prophet 
knows  what  I  do  !  Allah  is  great ! " 


244  A   POErs  BAZAAR. 

XI. 
THE   CEMETERY   AT   SCUTARI. 

THE  Turks  regard  themselves  as  strangers  in  Europe ;  they 
must,  therefore,  rest  in  their  father-land,  and  it  is  Asia.  The 
largest  cemetery  of  Constantinople  is  at  Scutari.  Where  one 
is  buried,  the  Turks  never  lay  another  corpse  ;  the  grave  of  the 
dead  is  his  home,  and  that  is  inclosed ;  thus  the  cemetery  soon 
increases  in  size.  That  at  Scutari  extends  for  miles.  For 
every  child  that  is  born,  they  plant  a  plantain-tree,  and  for 
every  man  that  dies,  they  plant  a  cypress ;  the  cemetery  at 
Scutari  is,  therefore,  an  extensive  forest  cut  through  with 
roads  and  paths.  Here  are  the  richest  monuments,  the  great- 
est variations  of  monumental  pillars  over  the  dead.  Beside 
the  graves,  which  are  covered  with  a  flat,  extended  stone,  there 
is  a  recess  or  hole  into  which  the  rain  falls  ;  the  dogs  slake 
their  thirst  there  ;  and  the  Turk  fondly  believes,  from  this, 
that  the  dead  are  happy  in  Mohammed's  paradise. 

The  grave-stones,  each  with  a  turban  or  fez  cut  in  the  stone, 
stand  under  the  tall  cypresses,  and  as  close  to  each  other  as 
the  stubble  in  a  mowed  field.  One  can  easily  see  where  the 
dervise  or  Turk  of  the  real  old  faith  rests,  and  where  the  new 
half-Europeanized  race  is  brought  to  sleep  ;  the  name  and 
rank  of  the  deceased  are  inscribed  on  the  stone  in  golden  char- 
acters. An  ingenious  epitaph  tells  of  the  mutability  of  life,  or 
calls  on  the  reader  to  pray  for  the  dead.  Where  a  woman 
rests  we  see  only  a  carved  lotus-leaf,  ornamented  with  gold  ; 
but  not  a  word  is  said  of  her.  Even  in  death,  woman  here  is 
veiled  and  unknown  to  the  stranger. 

No  fence  incloses  this  forest  of  the  dead  ;  it  is  still  and  sol- 
itary under  these  mighty  cypresses.  The  broad  highway  passes 
over  the  overthrown  graves  ;  the  Arab  drives  his  camel  past, 
—  the  bell  on  the  animal's  neck  is  the  only  sound  that  disturbs 
this  vast  solitude. 

The  Sea  of  Marmora  lies  before  us,  still  as  the  dead  under 
the  cypresses,  and  shows  us  its  beautifully  colored  islands 
The  largest  seems  a  little  paradise  with  wild  rocks,  vineyards, 
cypress,  plantain,  and  pine  woods !  What  grandeur  is  to  be 


THE   CEMETERY  AT  SCUTARI.  245 

seen  from  this  garden  of  the  dead  !  This  scene  of  splendor 
which  we  behold  was  the  place  of  banishment  for  dethroned 
emperors,  princes,  and  princesses  under  the  Byzantine  empire. 
They  sighed  in  the  cloisters  on  those  islands,  like  poor  monks 
and  nuns  !  It  is  better  with  the  dead  !  Corruption  sleeps  there 
without  dreaming ;  but  the  eternal,  striving,  has  haply  reached 
its  God. 

What  silence  amongst  these  graves  under  the  cypresses ! 
We  will  wander  here  in  the  clear  moonlight  night.  What  dark 
trees  !  night  slumbers  over  the  graves.  What  a  radiant  sky  ! 
life  streams  from  it. 

Yonder,  over  the  rugged  way,  there  moves  a  white  orb,  and 
a  red,  beaming  one,  as  if  they  were  shining  roses  ;  they  are 
only  two  paper  lanterns.  An  old  Turk  holds  them  in  his 
hand  as  he  rides  through  the  garden  of  the  dead  :  he  thinks 
not  of  the  dead  ;  no,  the  living  are  in  his  thoughts  ;  the  beau- 
tiful, the  merry  women  in  that  comfortable  home  where  he  will 
soon  stretch  his  limbs  on  the  soft  cushions,  eat  the  hot  pilaf, 
smoke  his  pipe  whilst  the  youngest  of  the  wives  claps  his  cheek, 
and  the  others  present  before  him  a  "  Shadow-play,"  —  a 
merry  comedy  which  the  Turks  favor  in  their  houses,  with 
Karagof,  and  Hadschi  Aiwat.1  Amongst  the  graves  under 
the  black  cypresses,  the  old  man  thinks  of  life —  and  life  is 
enjoyment ! 

It  is  again  still !  Footsteps  are  now  heard,  —  no  lantern 
shines ;  no  horse  trots  past ;  it  is  a  youth  strong  and  fiery, 
handsome  as  Ishmael's  self !  The  moon  shines  on  his  beam- 
ing face  ;  he  flies  on  the  wings  of  love.  Yes,  he  is  a  Turk. 

There  is  stillness  in  the  garden  of  the  dead  !  there  is  still- 
ness in  the  hut  by  the  Sea  of  Marmora ;  but  at  home  there 
are  two  lips  that  meet  as  the  mussel  shells  meet ;  that  in- 
close love's  pearl ! 

1  The  Turks  have  got  the  "  Schattenspiel,"  from  China.  The  chief 
personages  in  this  play  are  Karagof,  *'.  e.  Harlequin  ;  Hadschi  Aiwat,  i.  e. 
Pantaloon,  who  speaks  in  verse;  and  Hopa-Thelebis,  /.  e.  Petitmaitre. 


246  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

XII. 

MOHAMMED'S  BIRTHDAY. 

THE  fourth  of  May  is  the  birthday-festival  of  the  prophet 
Mahomet  or  Mohammed ;  the  evening  before  the  festivity 
began,  and  the  commencement  is  undeniably  the  finest  part 
of  it.  That  ii  was  moonlight,  and  that  the  Osman  police 
laws,  even  under  these  circumstances,  command  every  one 
that  goes  out  after  sunset  to  carry  a  candle  in  a  lantern  if  he 
would  not  be  arrested,  I  did  not  regard  as  the  most  pleasant 
regulation  ;  but  I  was  obliged  to  put  up  with  it,  for  neither 
the  moonlight  nor  the  police  laws  could  be  changed.  A 
young  Russian,  named  Aderhas,  and  I  went  together,  and 
without  any  guide,  but  furnished  with  lights  in  large,  paper 
lanterns,  we  hastened  away  to  see  the  illumination  in  honor 
of  the  prophet.  We  went  through  one  of  the  narrow  side- 
streets  of  Pera,  and  a  sight  lay  before  us,  so  magnificent,  so 
beautiful,  so  fantastic,  that  the  like  of  it  can  hardly  be  ex- 
pected to  be  seen  in  the  North  in  an  oriental  dream.  From 
the  row  of  houses  where  we  stood,  and  deep  down  toward  the 
bay,  there  lay  an  extensive  cemetery,  that  is  to  say,  a  wood 
of  cypresses  with  large,  closely  planted  trees:  pitchy  night 
rested  there. 

The  path,  which  the  foot  of  man  and  horses'  hoofs  have 
formed,  winds  over  rugged  hills,  then  downward  under  the 
high  trees.  Sometimes  it  is  narrow  between  the  sepulchral 
monuments,  and  sometimes  it  goes  over  the  ruined  grave- 
stones. Here  and  there  moved  a  red  or  blue  lantern  which, 
ever  and  anon,  disappeared  and  returned  to  sight  again  in  the 
dark  ground  ;  there  are  a  few  solitary  houses  in  the  cemetery ; 
the  light  shone  from  the  topmost  window,  or  was  borne  along 
the  open  balcony. 

The  bay,  filled  with  vessels,  could  be  seen  over  the  tops  of 
the  cypresses  as  blue  as  a  Damascus  blade  ;  two  of  the  largest 
ships  were  ornamented  in  the  richest  manner  with  burning 
lamps ;  they  beamed  around  the  port-holes,  about  the  gun- 
wale, and  the  masts ;  they  hung  in  the  shrouds  and  trans- 
formed them  into  a  radiant  net.  Opposite  us  lay  the  city  it 


MOHAMMED'S  BIRTHDAY.  247 

self,  that  great,  extended  Constantinople,  with  its  innumerable 
minarets,  all  entwined  with  wreaths  of  lamps ;  the  air  was  stil! 
red  from  the  setting  sun,  but  so  clear  and  transparent  that  the 
mountains  of  Asia  and  the  eternal  snow-covered  Olympus 
were  plainly  visible,  the  east  with  all  its  broken  lines  like  a 
silvery  cloud  behind  the  magnificent  city.  The  moonlight  did 
not  diminish  the  lustre  of  the  lamps,  but  only  brought  out  the 
minarets,  which  seemed  white  stalks  with  colossal  fire-flowers ; 
the  lesser  ones  bore  one  wreath  of  lights,  the  larger  two,  and 
the  largest  three,  one  above  the  other. 

There  was  not  a  being  to  be  seen  near  where  we  stood  ;  it 
was  still  and  solitary.  We  paced  down  through  the  cypresses 
where  a  nightingale  was  pouring  out  its  melodious  song,  and 
the  turtle-doves  cooed  in  the  dark  trees.  We  went  past  a  lit- 
tle guard-house,  built  of  planks  and  painted  red  ;  a  small  fire 
was  kindled  between  the  grave-stones  before  it,  and  soldiers 
lay  round  about  the  fire  ;  they  were  clothed  in  European 
dresses,  but  their  features  and  color  denoted  that  they  were  of 
Ishmael's  race,  the  children  of  the  Desert.  With  long  pipes 
in  their  mouths,  they  lay  and  listened  to  what  was  related  ;  it 
was  about  Mohammed's  birth ;  the  nightingale  translated  it 
for  us,  or  we  should  not  have  understood  it. 

"  La  illah  ilallah  ! l  The  merchants  met  together  in  the 
city  of  Mecca  for  the  sake  of  commerce ;  there  came  Indians 
and  Persians,  there  came  Egyptians  and  Syrians  ;  each  had 
his  idol  in  the  temple  of  Kaaba,  and  a  son  of  Ishmael's  race 
filled  one  of  the  highest  offices,  —  that  of  satisfying  the  hunger 
and  thirst  of  the  pilgrims.  Such  was  his  piety  he  would,  like 
Abraham,  have  offered  up  his  son  ;  but  the  soothsayer  bade 
the  beautiful  Abdallah  to  live,  and  a  hundred  camels  to  "be 
sacrificed  for  him.  La  illah  ilallah  !  And  Abdallah  grew 
up,  and  became  so  handsome  that  hundreds  of  maidens 
died  through  love  for  him  ;  the  flame  of  the  prophet  shone 
from  his  brow  ;  the  flame  that,  from  the  day  of  creation,  was 
concealed  from  generation  to  generation,  until  the  prophet, 
Mohammed  the  first  and  last  was  born.  The  soothsayer 
Fatima  saw  this  flame,  and  she  offered  a  hundred  camels  as 
her  dowry ;  but  he  pressed  Emina  to  his  breast,  and  the 
1  There  is  no  God  but  God 


248  A  POET'S  BAZAAR. 

prophet's  flame  vanished  from  his  brow  and  burned  under 
Emina's  heart.  La  illah  ilallah  ! 

"  Nine  changes  of  the  moon  passed  away,  and  never  had 
the  flowers  of  the  earth  exhaled  such  sweet  odors  as  in  these. 
Never  had  the  fruit  on  the  branches  swelled  so  juicy  !  Then 
the  rocks  shook,  the  lake  of  Sava  sank  in  the  earth,  the  idols 
fell  down  in  the  temple,  and  the  demons  that  would  fain  storm 
heaven,  fell  like  millions  of  shooting-stars,  cast  down  by  the 
lance- wielder  ;  for  Mohammed  the  prophet  was  born  that 
night  i  La  illah  ilallah  !  " 

This  story  the  nightingale  translated  for  us,  and  the  night- 
ingale understands  Turkish  just  as  well  as  it  understands 
Danish. 

We  passed  under  Pera's  tower  out  to  the  cloister  of  the 
turning  dervises ;  and  a  large  panorama  was  before  us.  The 
whole  Sea  of  Marmora  and  the  Asiatic  mountains  lay  irra- 
diated by  the  moonlight,  and  in  the  middle  rose  Scutari, 
whose  minarets  beamed  with  lamps  like  Constantinople's. 
And  here  stood  forth  the  Mosque  of  Sancta  Sophia,  with  its 
four  minarets  ;  and  the  Mosque  of  Achmet,  with  its  six,  each 
with  two  or  three  glittering  wreaths  of  stars.  They  seemed  to 
touch  the  gardens  of  the  Seraglio ;  extending,  dark  as  a  star- 
less night,  down  toward  the  Bosphorus.  Not  a  light  was  to 
be  seen  in  the  building  of  the  Sultanas  along  the  shore,  but 
where  the  Golden  Horn  terminates  there  was  a  flaming  sword 
planted,  which  cast  its  red  light  over  the  water.  Innumer- 
able small  boats,  each  with  red,  blue,  or  green  paper  lanterns, 
darted,  like  fire-flies,  between  Europe  and  Asia.  All  the  large 
vessels  of  war  shone  with  lamps ;  we  saw  every  ship,  shroud, 
and  spar ;  everything  was  as  if  drawn  in  fire.  Scutari  and 
Stamboul  seemed  bound  together  by  the  beaming  water  and 
the  variegated  points  of  fire.  It  was  the  city  of  romance  and 
fantasy ;  a  magic  was  shed  over  the  whole.  Only  on  two 
spots  lay  night  with  all  her  mysterious  gloom  ;  in  Asia  it  was 
in  the  large  cemetery  behind  Scutari,  and  in  Europe  it  was  in 
the  gardens  of  the  Seraglio.  Night  and  dreams  were  in  both 
places  ;  the  dead  heroes'  dreams  are  of  the  women  of  para- 
dise. In  the  Seraglio's  night  they  dream  of  the  earth,  and 
they  are  there  young  and  beautiful  as  their  heavenly  sisters. 


MOHAMMED'S  BIRTHDAY. 


249 


There  was  a  throng  of  Greeks,  Jews,  and  Franks  in  the 
streets  of  Pera ;  each  had  his  lantern  or  candle  ;  it  was  an 
oriental  moccolo ;  but  the  dresses  were  far  richer  and  more 
splendid  than  those  we  see  on  the  Corso  at  Rome  on  the  last 
evening  of  the  Carnival.  Lamps  placed  in  pyramids,  or  point- 
ing out  in  a  large  M,  the  initial  of  the  prophet's  name,  burnt 
before  the  houses  of  the  foreign  ministers.  At  nine  o'clock 
the  firing  of  cannon  was  heard  from  all  the  ships ;  they  thun- 
dered along  the  deep  as  if  there  were  a  great  sea-fight.  All 
the  windows  shook  :  shot  followed  shot  proclaiming  the  hour 
of  the  prophet's  birth. 

I  fell  asleep  during  the  booming  of  the  cannon,  and  awoke 
early  in  the  morning  with  the  same  thunder.  Merry  music  of 
Rossini  and  Donizetti  arose  to  me  from  the  streets.  The 
troops  marched  away  to  be  drawn  up  between  the  Seraglio  and 
the  Mosque  of  Achmet,  whither  the  Sultan  was  to  go  in  great 
state. 

The  Danish  Consul,  Romani,  an  Italian,  came  to  fetch  me. 
A  young  Turk,  with  pistols  in  his  belt,  and  bearing  two  long 
tobacco-pipes,  went  before  us.  An  old  Armenian,  in  a  dark 
blue  fluttering  caftan,  and  his  black  vase-shaped  hat  on  his 
shaved  head,  carried  our  cloaks  behind  us ;  and  thus  we 
strode  through  the  chief  street  of  Pera  down  to  Galata.  The 
servants  went  in  one  boat,  and  we  two  in  another.  And  now 
we  shot  over  the  bay,  like  arrows,  between  hundreds  of  other 
boats,  whose  rowers  screamed  and  shouted  to  each  other,  that 
the  one  should  not  rush  against  the  other's  light  vessel  and 
sink  it.  The  mass  of  gondolas  formed  a  large  rocking  bridge 
at  the  landing-place  of  Constantinople  ;  so  that  we  had  to 
spring  over  them  to  reach  the  firm  earth,  which  is  dammed  up 
with  half-rotten  beams  and  planks.  The  throng  was  great, 
but  we  soon  came  into  a  broader  street.  Here  were  people 
enough,  but  a  good  place,  nevertheless,  could  be  got. 

Large  crowds  of  women  veiled,  went  the  same  way  as  we ; 
and  we  were  soon  under  the  walls  of  the  Seraglio,  which  are 
very  high  toward  the  city,  and  look  like  the  walls  of  an  old 
fortification.  Here  and  there  is  a  tower,  with  a  little  iron 
door  that  seems  never  to  have  been  opened.  Grass  and 
creeping  plants  hang  about  the  hinges.  Large  old  trees 


250  A   FOETUS  BAZAAR. 

stretch  their  leafy  branches  out  over  the  walls ;  one  might 
fancy  it  was  the  borders  of  the  enchanted  forest  where  the 
sleeping  princess  lay. 

We  took  our  station  outside  the  Mosque  of  St.  Sophia,  be- 
tween the  great  fountain  and  the  entrance  to  the  Seraglio. 
The  Mosque  of  St.  Sophia,  with  its  many  cupolas  and  addi- 
tional buildings,  has,  from  hence,  an  appearance  that  reminds 
us  of  a  large  flower,  with  its  many  little  buds  about  it.  The 
terraces  before  it  were  rilled  with  Turkish  women  and  chil- 
dren ;  the  shining  white  veils  imparted  a  festival  air  to  them. 

The  fountain  behind  us  is  the  largest  and  handsomest  in 
Constantinople.  But  by  a  fountain  we  usually  imagine  a 
basin  into  which  the  water  descends.  It  is  not  so  in  Turkey. 
A  better  idea  of  a  Turkish  fountain  will  be  formed  by  imagin- 
ing a  square  house,  with  the  outside  walls  variegated  quite  in 
the  Pompeiian  style.  The  white  ground  is  painted  over  with 
red,  blue,  and  gilt  inscriptions  from  the  Alcoran  ;  and  from 
small  niches,  within  which  the  brass  ladles  are  chained,  the 
consecrated  fresh  water  with  which  the  Mussulman  washes 
his  face  and  hands,  at  fixed  hours  of  the  day  bubbles  forth. 
The  roof  is  quite  Chinese,  besides  being  painted  in  various 
colors,  or  gilded.  The  dove,  the  Turk's  holy  bird,  builds 
there,  and  flies  by  hundreds  from  the  fountain  over  our 
heads  to  the  Mosque  of  St.  Sophia,  and  back  again.  Round 
about  lie  a  number  of  coffee-houses,  all  of  wood,  and  with 
balconies,  almost  like  the  houses  in  Switzerland,  but  more  va- 
ried, and  more  ruinous.  Small  patches  of  trees  are  before 
each,  under  which  sit  tobacco-smoking  and  coffee-drinking 
Turks,  who  in  their  various  colored  caftans,  some  with  tur- 
bans, others  with  fez,  may  be  said  to  curtain  the  houses  and 
decorate  the  gardens. 

Between  the  fountain  and  the  great  gate  leading  into  the 
foremost  yard  of  the  Seraglio,  were  two  long  scaffoldings  of 
planks  on  tuns  and  tables,  the  one  higher  than  the  other,  and 
both  covered  with  cushions  and  carpets,  on  which  veiled 
Turkish  women  of  the  commonest  class  reclined  themselves. 
Old  Turks,  Persians,  and  a  number  of  Franks,  whose  unveiled 
females  attracted  much  attention,  had  their  station  on  the 
higher  part  of  the  scaffolding.  Now  came  several  regiments 


MOHAMMED'S  BIRTHDAY.  25! 

of  Turkish  soldiers,  all  in  European  uniforms  —  narrow  trou- 
sers, and  short  jackets,  the  white  bandoliers  across  over  the 
breast  and  shoulders,  and  all  with  red  stiff  fez  on  the  head. 
The  guards  looked  well ;  they  had  new  uniforms,  stiff  stocks, 
with  collars,  and  wore  on  this  day  —  for  the  first  time  as  I 
heard — white  gloves.  Other  regiments,  on  the  contrary, 
looked  quite  frightful.  I  will  not  dwell  upon  the  fact  that 
there  were  all  sorts  of  colored  faces,  white,  brown,  and  jet- 
black  amongst  them,  but  there  were  both  halt  and  club-footed 
soldiers.  The  European  uniform  was  too  tight  for  them  ;  and 
so  a  number  of  them  had  ripped  the  seams  up  at  the  elbows, 
or  cut  a  long  gash  in  the  trousers  before  the  knees,  that  they 
might  move  more  freely,  by  which  means  a  completely  naked 
elbow  stuck  out,  or  during  the  march  a  red  or  black  knee  con- 
tinually peeped  out  of  the  blue  trousers.  One  regiment, 
which  I  will  call  the  bare-legged,  excelled  in  particular,  —  for 
some  of  them  had  but  one  boot  and  one  shoe ;  others  were 
quite  bare-legged,  in  slippers,  and  amongst  them  there  were 
slippers  of  all  colors.  They  all  entered  the  Seraglio  to 
clanging  music  ;  and  after  having  passed  by  the  Sultan,  they 
returned,  and  placed  themselves  in  a  rank  on  each  side  of  the 
street.  Ethiopians  and  Bulgarians  stood  side  by  side ;  the 
Bedouin  was  neighbor  to  the  herdsman's  son  from  the  Balkan 
Mountains. 

The  procession  was  to  commence  at  nine  o'clock ;  but  it 
was  almost  twelve  before  it  pleased  the  Sultan  to  set  out  from 
the  Seraglio.  The  sun  burnt  with  the  warmth  of  summer. 
One  cup  of  coffee  after  the  other  was  drunk.  The  scaffolding 
fell  down  two  or  three  times,  and  all  the  Turkish  women 
rolled  in  a  heap  together.  We  had  a  tedious  time  of  it. 
Some  years  ago  it  was  the  custom  that  the  heads  of  all  those 
who  were  executed  in  the  yard  of  the  Seraglio  should  be 
thrown  out  into  this  place  for  the  dogs  ;  now  there  was  noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  Young  Turks,  who  knew  a  little  French  or 
Italian,  entered  into  conversation  with  us  and  the  other 
Franks,  and  showed  the  greatest  willingness  to  explain  to  us 
whatever  appeared  to  attract  our  attention. 

Below  the  walls  of  the  Seraglio  lay  extended  the  sunlit  Sea 
of  Marmora,  with  its  white  sails,  and  Asia's  mountains  shin- 


252  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

ing  with  their  snowy  tops  high  in  the  clear  blue-green  air.  A 
young  Turk,  who,  as  he  told  me,  was  born  on  the  shores  of 
the  Euphrates,  said  that  the  sky  there  often  shone  more  green 
than  blue. 

The  firing  of  cannon  was  now  heard  in  the  garden  of  the 
Seraglio,  and  the  procession  began.  First  came  a  band  of 
music  on  horseback  ;  even  the  cymbal  player,  and  he  with  the 
great  drum,  sat  on  horseback.  The  bridle  hung  loose  around 
the  animal's  neck  whilst  the  cymbals  glittered  in  the  sun. 
Then  came  the  guards,  who,  in  truth,  looked  as  soldierly  as 
any  guards  in  Christendom.  Then  came  a  troop  of  splendid 
horses,  all  without  riders,  but  ornamented  with  beautiful  shab- 
racks, red,  blue,  and  green,  and  all  as  if  sewed  over  with  brill- 
iants. The  horses  seemed  to  dance  ;  they  threw  up  their 
necks  proudly  ;  and  the  long  mane,  the  red  nostrils,  trembled 
like  the  mimosa  leaf,  and  an  intellectual  soul  shone  in  the 
eye. 

A  crowd  of  young  officers  on  horseback  followed,  all  in  Eu- 
ropean dresses,  with  surtout  and  fez.  Men  in  office,  both 
civil  and  military,  all  in  the  same  garb,  came  next ;  and  then 
the  Grand  Vizier,  a  man  with  a  large  white  beard. 

Bands  of  music  were  stationed  in  different  parts  of  the 
street ;  the  one  relieved  the  other.  They  played  pieces  from 
Rossini's  "  William  Tell."  Suddenly  they  ceased,  and  the 
young  Sultan's  favorite  march  began  :  it  is  composed  by  Doni- 
zetti's brother,  who  is  appointed  leader  of  the  bands  here. 
The  Sultan  approached  ;  before  him  was  led  a  troop  of  Ara- 
bian horses,  with  still  more  magnificent  shabracks  than  those 
we  had  before  seen.  Rubies  and  emeralds  formed  bows  by  the 
horses'  ears  ;  the  morocco  leather  bridles  were  covered  with 
glittering  stones,  and  the  saddles  and  cloths  embroidered  with 
pearls  and  jewels.  It  was  a  magnificence  such  as  the  geni  of 
the  lamp  had  created  for  Aladdin. 

Surrounded  by  a  large  company  of  young  men,  all  on  foot, 
and  handsome  as  if  they  were  oriental  women  who  had  ven- 
tured out  unveiled,  and  each  with  a  green  feather-fan  in  his 
hand,  sat  the  young  Sultan,  Abdul  Meschid,  then  nineteen 
years  of  age,  on  a  beautiful  Arabian  horse.  He  wore  a  green 
surtout,  buttoned  over  the  breast,  and  without  any  sort  of  or- 


VISIT  AND  DEPARTURE.  053 

nament,  if  we  except  a  large  jewel,  and  bird-of-paradise  feather, 
fixed  in  his  red  fez.  He  looked  very  pale  and  thin  ;  had  fea- 
tures that  betrayed  suffering  ;  and  he  fixed  his  dark  eyes  stead- 
fastly on  the  spectators,  particularly  on  the  Franks.  We  took 
our  hats  off,  and  saluted  him.  The  soldiers  cried  aloud :  "  Long 
live  the  Emperor  !  "  But  he  made  not  the  least  response  to 
the  greeting.  "  Why  does  he  not  salute  us  ?  "  I  asked  of  a 
young  Turk  by  my  side.  "  He  saw  that  we  took  our  hats 
off!"  "He  regarded  you!"  answered  the  Turk.  "He 
looked  very  closely  at  you  ! "  We  were  to  be  satisfied  with 
that ;  it  was  as  good  as  the  best  salutation.  I  told  the  Turk 
that  all  the  Prankish  princes  saluted  with  the  head  uncovered, 
as  we  greeted  him.  It  appeared  to  him  like  the  tale  of  a 
traveller.  The  Pashas  and  other  great  men  of  the  empire 
followed  next ;  then  Frankish  officers  in  the  Turkish  service  ; 
and  then  a  crowd  of  Turks  and  women  closed  the  procession. 
There  was  a  crowd  and  mud  !  Half-naked  street-boys,  with 
torn  and  worn  turbans  ;  old  beggar-wives,  veiled  with  rags  ; 
men,  in  morocco  slippers,  and  parti-colored  trousers,  forced 
their  way  through  the  throng  screaming.  They  bellowed  out 
"  Allah  Ekber  "  (God  is  great ! )  when  the  soldiers  directed 
the  butt  end  of  their  muskets  against  them.  The  whole  street 
was  a  variegated  river  of  fez,  turban,  and  veil ;  and  on  both 
sides  waved  the  shining  bayonets,  like  the  reeds  and  plants 
on  the  shores  of  the  river.  Whenever  the  Franks  desired  to 
pass  through  the  ranks  of  the  military,  the  officers  came  di- 
rectly, with  the  greatest  civility,  and  effected  a  passage  ;  they 
drove  their  brother  believers  aside,  who  stared  at  the  honored 
Franks,  as  they  repeated  the  exclamation,  "  Allah  Ekber  1 " 


XIII. 

VISIT   AND   DEPARTURE. 

I  WAS  furnished  in  Athens  with  several  letters,  which  made 
my  stay  in  Pera  extremely  pleasant.     I  must  particularly  men- 
tion the  Austrian  Ir.ternuncio.  Baron  Sturmer,  the  Greek  Min 
ister,  Chrystides,  and  our  Danish  Consul,  Romani. 


254  A   fO£T'S  BAZAAR. 

The  Austrian  Minister's  residence  consists  of  several  build 
ings,  inclosed  by  walls,  and  with  a  large  handsome  garden, 
where,  through  roses  and  cypresses,  there  was  a  commanding 
view  over  the  lower  part  of  the  city,  the  Bosphorus,  and  the 
Sea  of  Marmora.  Here,  in  the  lighted  rooms  which  dispense 
every  European  comfort  and  luxury,  I  felt  quite  at  home. 
German,  French,  and  English  journals  lay  on  the  tables  ; 
there  were  music  and  singing.  A  great  number  of  the  diplo- 
matic world  and  several  interesting  families  were  present, 
with  whom  I  formed  acquaintance,  and  the  hours  flew  fast. 
When  the  company  broke  up  toward  night,  there  was  some- 
thing peculiar  in  the  tour  home.  Servants  were  waiting  in 
the  corridor,  with  sedan  chairs  for  the  ladies ;  the  gentlemen 
were  accompanied  through  the  streets  with  torches,  or  else 
each  one  had  his  lantern  with  a  candle  in  it. 

I  first  saw  the  interior  of  a  Turkish  house  at  Ali  Effendi's, 
and  the  imperial  interpreter,  Saphet,  who  both  live  in  the  same 
building,  which  bears  the  name  of  "The  High  Gate."  On  the 
stairs  and  in  the  long  passages,  which  were  covered  with  rush 
mats,  there  was  a  swarm  of  European  and  Asiatic  Mussulmen, 
as  well  as  poor  women  with  petitions  in  their  hands,  whilst 
soldiers,  with  short  heavy  sabres,  walked  about  Every  one 
that  came  had  to  take  off  his  boots  or  shoes,  and  put  on  slip- 
pers. 

Armed  servants  stood  guard  before  the  entrance,  which  was 
covered  with  long  carpets.  In  the  room  there  was  a  divan 
along  the  walls  ;  this  was  the  principal  piece  of  furniture.  Ali 
Effendi  entered  into  conversation  with  me  about  Lamartine's 
**  Travels  in  the  East,"  and  asked  me  if  I  intended  to  describe 
my  stay,  and  what  impression  the  sight  of  Constantinople 
had  made  on  me.  I  told  him  that  I  thought  the  situation  the 
finest  in  the  world  ;  that  the  view  far  surpassed  that  of  Na- 
ples, but  that  we  had  a  city  in  the  North,  which  offered  some- 
thing to  the  spectator  akin  to  Constantinople.  And  I  de- 
scribed Stockholm  to  him,  which,  seen  from  the  Mosebank, 
has  something  of  the  appearance  that  Constantinople  presents 
from  the  tower  of  Pera,  out  toward  "the  sweet  waters."  That 
part  of  Stockholm,  which  is  called  Sodermalmen,  shows  us  red 
painted,  wooden  houses,  cupolas  on  the  churches,  pine-trees 


VISIT  AND  DEPARTURE. 


255 


and  hanging  birches,  —  all  is  Turkish  ;  the  minarets  alone 
are  wanting. 

During  the  course  of  conversation,  he  asked  me  how  many 
days'  journey  Stockholm  was  from  the  capital  of  my  native 
land,  and  what  difference  there  was  in  the  languages  of  the 
two  countries.  Saphet  EfFendi  spoke  but  little,  yet  he  was 
highly  attentive,  and,  as  it  seemed,  quite  Europeanized.  Thick 
coffee  and  pipes,  with  good  tobacco,  were  presented.  I,  who 
never  smoke  tobacco,  was  obliged,  for  politeness'  sake,  to 
take  a  pipe  in  my  mouth  ;  and  this  was  the  only  unpleasant 
thing  in  "  The  High  Gate." 

Romani  told  me  that  I  had  a  fellow-countryman  in  Pera,  a 
shoemaker  from  Copenhagen,  who  was  married  and  settled 
there,  and  that  his  name  was  Herr  Langsch,  a  complete  Dan- 
ish name,  as  he  said  ;  but  this  I  denied,  and  begged  him  to 
conduct  me  to  the  man's  house.  We  entered  one  of  the  most 
frequented  streets  of  Pera,  and  there  hung  over  a  door  a  real 
Danish  sign  with  a  large  boot,  and  underneath  was  written 
the  name  "Lange."  We  entered  the  shop.  "  God  dag  !  jeg 
har  nok  her  en  Landsmand!" —  "Good  day,  I  have  a  coun- 
tryman here,  I  see,"  said  I ;  and  the  man  sprang  up  from  his 
stool  with  a  face  beaming  with  joy.  I  shook  hands  with  him, 
and  we  were  soon  deep  in  a  Danish  conversation.  He  told 
me  that  it  was  nine  years  since  he  had  left  Denmark  ;  he  had 
travelled  through  the  whole  of  Hungary  and  Wallachia  ;  had 
worked  long  in  Galitz,  and  had  there  married  a  Wallachian 
girl ;  they  had  a  few  years  before  come  to  Pera,  where  they 
lived  well,  and  gained  a  good  livelihood  ;  he  kept  several 
workmen,  and  was  able  to  lay  money  by,  so  that  he  might 
once  again  go  home  to  Denmark,  and  then  return  to  Turkey, 
where  he  had  succeeded  so  well.  He  bade  me  greet  his 
father,  brothers,  and  sisters  when  I  returned  to  Copenhagen. 
His  father,  he  told  me,  was  also  a  shoemaker. 

Our  Danish  Minister,  Chamberlain  Hiibsch,  who  was  born 
in  Constantinople  and  has  always  resided  there,  has  his  resi- 
dence in  Bujukdere,  which  is  situated  at  no  great  distance 
from  the  Black  Sea.  A  visit  to  him  is  always  a  little  journey 
from  Pera,  but  it  can  be  very  conveniently  managed  in  a  boat 
down  the  Bosphorus.  Hiibsch  was  so  obliging  as  to  come  to 


256  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

fetch  me  to  pass  a  few  days  with  him  ;  but  the  Greek  Ministei 
Chrystides  had  invited  me  the  same  day  to  dine  with  him,  as 
there  would  be  several  Greeks  at  his  house  in  whom  I  took 
much  interest ;  and  time  and  circumstances  did  not  permit 
me  to  make  the  excursion  afterward  ;  for  the  Austrian  steam- 
vessel  which  sails  from  Constantinople  over  the  Black  Sea, 
and  is  in  connection  with  the  steamers  on  the  Danube,  was 
just  going  at  that  time,  so  that  I  should  thereby  have  an 
opportunity  of  seeing  a  great  part  of  Bulgaria,  Wallachia, 
Servia,  and  Hungary,  a  passage  which,  in  anticipation,  inter- 
ested me  in  a  high  degree.  But  there  was  a  rebellion  in  Rou- 
melia,  and  they  feared  that  the  movement  would  extend  to 
the  neighboring  lands.  The  Austrian  post  which  goes  by  way 
of  Belgrade  to  Constantinople,  had  not  arrived  for  three  whole 
weeks  ;  people  were  sure  that  the  post-courier  had  been  mur- 
dered or  imprisoned.  No  one  here  knew  the  particulars,  no 
measures  had  been  taken  ;  the  Austrian  and  Russian  Minis- 
ters sent  estafettes  to  Adrianople  and  Balkan  ;  the  news  they 
received  was  highly  imperfect,  but  it  was  certain  that  the 
Turkish  tax  collectors'  harshness  and  injustice  had  caused 
the  Christian  families  in  Nissa  and  Sophia  to  revolt.  It  was 
said  that  during  the  Greek's  Easter  the  Turks  had  forced 
their  way  into  the  churches,  and  there  grossly  ill-treated 
women  ;  above  two  thousand  were  said  to  have  been  mur- 
dered. 

One  can  make  the  voyage  from  Constantinople  over  the 
Black  Sea  and  up  the  Danube  to  Vienna  every  tenth  day  ;  but 
as  matters  now  stood,  it  was  to  be  feared  that  the  longer  the 
voyage  was  put  off,  the  more  uncertain  it  became  whether  it 
could  be  made  at  all,  and  whether  I  should  not  be  obliged  to 
return,  via  Greece  and  Italy.  In  the  hotel  where  I  had  put  up, 
there  were  two  Frenchmen  and  an  Englishman,  whom  I  had 
agreed  to  accompany  in  the  voyage  up  the  Danube  to  Vienna, 
but  they  now  quite  gave  it  up,  and  chose  to  return  home  by  way 
of  Italy  ;  they  regarded  the  Danube  voyage  as  a  completely 
foolisli  undertaking,  and  had,  as  they  said,  been  confirmed 
in  that  opinion  by  good  authorities.  They  thought  that  the 
rebellious  Bulgarians  would  scarcely  respect  the  Austrian  flagv 
and  that  if  we  were  not  killed,  we  should  at  least  expose  our- 
selves to  a  hundred  annoyances. 


VISIT  AND   DEPARTURE.  257 

I  confess  I  passed  an  extremely  unquiet  and  painful  night, 
for  I  could  not  decide  on  the  course  I  should  take  ;  on  the 
evening  of  the  next  day  I  must  be  on  board,  if  I  meant  to  go 
by  this  vessel.  Fear  of  the  many  dangers,  which,  according 
to  every  one's  account,  were  approaching,  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  my  burning  desire  to  see  something  new  and  interest- 
ing, set  my  blood  in  a  fever.  I  went  to  Baron  Stunner  early 
next  morning,  explained  my  case  to  him,  and  begged  his  ad- 
vice. He  said  that  a  Russian  courier  had  arrived  the  evening 
before,  who  had  passed  through  the  part  of  the  country  we 
must  traverse  to  reach  the  Danube  from  the  Black  Sea,  but 
that  no  disturbance  was  visible  there ;  he  added,  that  two  Aus- 
trian officers,  Colonel  Philippovich  and  Major  Tratner,  who 
were  both  returning  home  from  the  campaign  in  Syria,  and 
whom  I  already  knew  from  having  dined  with  them  in  his 
house,  were  just  going  to  make  the  home  voyage  up  the  Dan- 
ube with  the  vessel  that  was  to  start  early  next  morning.  All 
the  dispatches  and  letters,  as  well  as  a  considerable  sum  of 
money,  as  the  post  could  not  go,  were  committed  to  the  care 
of  Colonel  Philippovich,  who,  in  the  event  of  the  worst,  could 
demand  all  necessary  protection,  so  that  I  could  join  these 
gentlemen. 

The  voyage  was  therefore  now  fixed,  and  from  that  moment 
all  fear  was  gone.  The  same  hour,  news  arrived  in  Pera 
which  immediately  supplanted  the  general  conversation  about 
the  revolt  in  the  country ;  it  was  the  sorrowful  account  that 
the  steamship  Stamboul,  the  largest  that  the  Austrian  company 
possessed,  had  that  morning,  during  the  thick  fogs  which  hover 
over  the  Black  Sea,  run  against  a  rock  twelve  miles  east  of 
Amastra,  and  become  a  complete  wreck,  but  that  the  passen- 
gers were  saved. 

Toward  evening  I  left  Pera.  From  the  high  round  tower  in 
the  church-yard  my  eye  once  more  drank  in  that  great  and 
wondrously  beautiful  panorama  of  Constantinople,  the  Sea  of 
Marmora,  and  snow-covered  Olympus. 

It  was  the  steamship  Ferdinando  the  First  that  was  to  bear 
me  over  Pontus  Euxinus  ;  it  was  comfortable  and  well  ar- 
ranged on  board,  and  in  the  first  cabin  there  was,  besides 
Colonel  Philippovich,  Major  Tratner,  and  myself,  only  one 


258  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

passenger,  —  Mr.  Ainsworth,  an  Englishman,  who  had  been 
sent  out  on  an  expedition  to  Koordistan,  and  had  now  just 
come  from  Babylon. 

I  found  a  whole  crowd  of  deck-passengers  on  board  ;  Turks, 
Jews,  Bulgarians,  and  Wallachians,  who  made  themselves 
quite  at  home,  boiled  their  coffee,  and  stretched  themselves 
out  to  sleep.  Boats  cruised  round  about  our  vessel  —  ships 
came  and  went  There  was  life  on  the  water,  and  a  hum- 
ming, and  whistling,  and  bustling  in  Pera  and  Constantinople, 
as  if  a  crowd  rushed  through  the  streets.  No,  of  such  things 
it  is  only  lively  Naples  that  can  give  one  an  idea  ! 

Directly  over  the  dark  cypresses  of  the  Seraglio  stood  the 
moon  round  and  large,  but  quite  pale,  in  the  shining  blue  air. 
The  sun  went  down,  and  its  red  beams  fell  on  the  windows  in 
Scutari.  It  looked  exactly  as  if  fire  were  kindled  beside  fire  ; 
it  blinded  the  eye  at  once ;  it  was  quenched,  and  evening 
spread  itself  out  over  the  clear  surface  of  the  water,  over 
cupolas  and  minarets  ;  large  dolphins  rolled  about  close  to  our 
ship  ;  large  gondolas  darted  like  arrows  over  the  bay  from 
the  Seraglio's  side,  rowed  by  twelve  or  twenty  gondoliers,  all 
with  crape-like  sleeves  hanging  down  from  their  naked,  mus- 
cular arms  ;  the  quick  strokes  of  the  oars  kept  measured  time, 
whilst  a  majestic  Turk,  with  folded  arms,  sat  near  the  rudder, 
elevated  on  variegated  cushions  and  carpets,  which  hung  down 
into  the  water.  It  was  like  a  vision  !  a  scene  in  a  fairy  tale ! 
The  stars  twinkled,  and  the  muezzin  cried  the  time  in  hollow, 
monotonous  tones  from  the  minarets. 


XIV. 

THE   BOSPHORUS. 

THE  Bosphorus  is  a  river  with  the  transparency  of  the  sea  ; 
a  salt-water  river  uniting  two  seas  ;  a  river  between  two  quar- 
ters of  the  world,  where  every  spot  is  picturesque,  every  place 
historical.  Here  the  East  pays  court  to  Europe,  and  dreams 
that  it  is  master.  I  know  no  extent  of  land  like  this,  where 
strength  and  mildness  are  so  united  as  here.  The  shores  of 


THE  BOSPHORUS.  259 

the  Rhine  in  all  their  autumnal  beauty  have  not  colors  like 
the  shores  of  the  Bosphorus ;  the  Rhine  appears  narrow  com- 
pared to  the  bed  of  these  glass-green  waters,  and  yet  I  must 
think  of  the  Rhine,  I  must  think  of  Maelaren's  shores  between 
Stockholm  and  Upsala,  when  the  warm  summer  sun  shines 
between  the  dark  firs  and  trembling  birches. 

The  sea's  width  is  in  most  places  not  so  broad  but  that  one 
can  clearly  see  everything  on  both  coasts.  This  long  stream 
winds  in  seven  turns  between  the  Sea  of  Marmora  and  the 
Black  Sea,  and  almost  throughout  this  extent  the  European 
coast  looks  like  one  city  —  one  single  street,  behind  which  the 
mountains  raise  their  heads  ;  if  not  proudly,  yet  always  so 
that  they  may  be  called  mountains,  and  on  these  the  trees 
were  as  rich  as  if  they  were  a  garden  —  a  real  botanic  gar- 
den !  Here  are  birches  as  in  Sweden  and  Norway ;  groups  of 
beech-trees  as  in  Denmark ;  pines,  plantains,  and  chestnuts 
as  we  see  them  in  Italy,  and  cypresses  strong  and  large  as  the 
cemeteries  at  Pera  and  Scutari  alone  possess ;  and  in  this 
green  vegetation,  the  palm-tree  rises  with  its  broad  capital,  a 
monument  that  tells  us  where  in  the  world  we  really  are. 

The  whole  coast  seems,  as  I  have  said,  a  town  and  yet  no 
town.  Here  street  alternates  with  garden,  with  cemetery,  and 
vineyard  ;  here  stands  a  mosque  with  its  white,  trim  minarets  ; 
here  a  dingy,  half-ruined  fortress  ;  there  a  palace  such  as  we 
imagine  one  in  the  East ;  here  again  red  painted,  wooden 
houses,  which  appear  to  have  been  brought  from  Norway's 
whistling  fir  woods. 

Let  us  now  turn  our  eyes  toward  the  Asiatic  side  ;  there 
everything  is  just  as  rich,  just  as  varying,  only  there  is  not 
that  mass  of  buildings  which  makes  us  regard  the  coast  of 
Europe  as  an  endless  city  ;  here  the  plains  are  longer,  the 
mountains  higher,  and  more  branching. 

The  fifth  of  May,  the  day  of  Napoleon's  death,  I  was  to 
pass  on  the  Black  Sea.  There  are  more  spirits'  feast-days 
than  those  the  almanacs  point  out  as  Sundays  and  holidays. 
Our  own  life  and  the  history  of  the  world  indicate  some  which 
do  not  stand  in  the  calendar.  Often,  on  calling  to  mind  such 
remarkable  days,  I  have  felt  in  a  lively  manner,  how  prosaically 
void  they  had  passed  away  with  me  ;  yet,  this  year,  one  of  the 


260  A   POETS  BAZAAR. 

present  age's  famous  days  stood  in  a  peculiar  and  holiday 
manner  before  me.  This  morning,  at  half  past  four  o'clock,  I 
sailed  from  the  harbor  of  Constantinople  through  the  Bos 
phorus,  and  out  into  the  Black  Sea. 

I  was  awakened  by  hearing  the  anchor  fall ;  I  dressed  in 
haste,  and  went  upon  deck  ;  everything  lay  enveloped  in  thick 
fog,  but  it  was  only  for  a  moment,  for  with  astonishing  quick- 
ness the  mist  rose  to  the  summit  of  Pera's  tower.  This  tower 
with  Galata  and  Topschana  lay  behind  us  ;  the  large  barracks, 
the  high  mosque  in  the  suburb  Fiindiiklu  stood  imposingly 
forth,  with  the  whole  Turkish  fleet,  lately  returned  home  from 
Egypt,  lying  there.  We  glided  close  past ;  Turkish  soldiers 
and  sailors  stuck  their  heads  out  from  all  the  port-holes  round 
about :  each  of  them  could,  in  a  few  minutes,  have  told  us 
more  truthful  things,  and  those  more  poetically  than  Piickler 
Muskau  gives  us  in  his  far  famed  works ;  but  our  steamer 
was  on  its  flight ;  the  fog  was  also  on  its  flight,  sometimes 
touching  the  ship's  chimney,  and  sometimes  rising  as  if  to 
change  into  rain-bringing  clouds.  There  was  a  life  and  a 
movement  over  us,  as  if  Darius  with  his  army  again  passed 
over  the  Bosphorus  in  these  misty  figures  ;  there  was  a  life 
and  a  movement  about  us  with  boats,  —  those  which  came 
from  the  vessels  of  war,  large  and  well  manned,  and  those 
which  came  from  the  shores,  thin,  frail  gondolas,  where  the 
Turk  lay  at  the  bottom  with  crossed  legs.  But  it  was  still  on 
board  our  vessel.  The  Turks  had  spread  their  carpets  over  the 
deck :  some  of  them  slept,  wrapped  up  in  their  furred  cloaks ; 
others  drank  their  thick  coffee  or  blew  clouds  from  their  long 
pipes :  the  fog  rose  and  fell  as  if  the  world  had  returned  to 
chaos  ;  the  sun  now  broke  forth,  and  now  again  it  seemed  to 
have  no  power ;  the  ships  lying  at  a  distance  had  the  appear- 
ance of  shadowy  forms  :  I  thought  of  the  phantom  ship  and 
the  Flying  Dutchman. 

Topschana  and  Pera  seemed  to  be  one  city  with  Constan- 
tinople, and  Scutari  the  suburb,  which,  with  its  white  minarets, 
red-brown  houses,  and  green  gardens,  lay  in  the  clearest  sun- 
shine, which  streamed  out  over  the  whole  Asiatic  coast.  We 
saw  the  charming  village  of  Kandelli,  situated  on  an  eminence, 
rhe  Imperial  Gardens,  the  Grand  Signer's  extensive  palaces. 


THE  BOSPHORUS.  26l 

What  affluence,  what  natural  splendor  around  tht  shores  of  the 
Bosphorus ! 

How  often,  when  a  boy,  have  my  thoughts  sailed  through 
"  The  Thousand  and  One  Nights,"  and  I  saw  strange  palaces 
of  marble  with  hanging  gardens  and  cooling  fountains.  Here 
such  a  one  as  I  had  then  mentally  seen  stood  before  me  in 
reality.  It  was  the  newly  completed  summer  palace,  on  the 
European  side.  Abdul  Meschid  was  the  first  Sultan  who  had 
resided  there ;  he  had  removed  to  this  palace  the  previous 
year.  It  is  in  the  oriental  style,  of  great  proportions,  with 
marble  pillars,  and  high  terraces. 

This  is  the  scene  for  a  young  prince's  love.  Here,  to  speak 
in  the  spirit  of  the  Turkish  poets,  and  with  their  words,  —  here 
the  vernal  season  comes  early  and  clothes  the  tulip  in  its  red 
mantle,  which  the  dew  ornaments  with  its  silvery  pearls  ;  and 
the  cypresses  and  plantains  raise  their  arms,  praying  that  they 
may  shelter  their  young  prince  for  a  long  life-time  !  But  what 
is  a  long  life-time  ?  It  is  a  happy  life-time,  and  happy  —  yes, 
but  what  is  happiness  ?  An  immortal  name  or  happiness  in 
love  ?  Ask  the  young !  Alas  !  every  one  is  not  an  Alexan- 
der, who  can  win  both,  and  win  doubly,  by  dying  in  the  midst 
of  victory. 

The  palace  gardens  extend  to  the  village  of  Kurutscheme, 
whose  peculiar  modern  buildings  alongside  the  water  attract 
particular  attention.  One  story  projects  over  the  other,  sup- 
ported by  slanting  beams  underneath.  The  room  between  the 
buildings  and  the  water  is  in  a  manner  roofed  by  the  jutting 
stones. 

Several  of  the  elder  Sultanas  live  here ;  the  windows  out- 
side, therefore,  are  well  covered  with  screens,  which  certainly 
do  not  want  peep-holes,  from  whence  the  once  beautiful  and 
mighty  can  look  out  upon  the  water  and  see  the  foreign  vessels. 
Alas !  each  of  these  women  was  once  a  beautiful  poem  ;  now 
they  are  forgotten,  and  cannot  console  themselves  with  :  "  Ver- 
gessne  Gedichte  sind  neue  I  "  (forgotten  poems  are  new).  The 
long  silken  eye-lashes,  once  a  row  of  arrows  which  pierced  the 
breast,  now  hang  like  weeping-willows  over  the  eye's  lake, 
the  only  one  in  which  a  beauteous  star  is  mirrored  ;  and  they 
draw  the  veil  closer  together,  only  not  about  the  eye  ;  it  dare 


262  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

be  seen,  and  it  sees.  Heaven  knows  what  eye  we  and  oui 
ship  were  reflected  in  as  we  passed  Kurutscheme.  The  helms- 
man told  us  that  the  strongest  currents  in  the  Bosphorus  are 
here. 

The  delightful  valley  of  Bebek,  with  its  summer  palace, 
opened  to  our  view ;  it  is  bounded  by  the  dark  cypresses  of  a 
cemetery.  These  few  words,  however,  convey  no  picture  ;  the 
eye  must  see  this  valley  which,  like  an  English  park  in  the 
brightest  sunshine,  displays  a  variety  of  green,  such  as  cannot 
be  mixed  on  the  pallet :  we  must  see  these  willows,  whose 
gently-waving  branches  seem  to  play  with  their  shadows  along 
the  ground  ;  these  groups  of  leaf-trees,  under  whose  shady 
roof  the  wild  turtle-dove  has  its  seraglio ;  these  rich  green 
grass  plains  where  the  shining  white  oxen  stand  —  white  as 
the  marble  images  of  old  —  half  hid  in  the  high  grass.  Here 
are  life,  sunshine,  and  joyousness  ;  close  by  lies  the  bound- 
ary, the  dark  cypress  wood  with  the  dead  —  shadows  and 
repose. 

We  glided  past  the  cemetery ;  picturesque  rocks  arose  ;  we 
were  on  the  place  where  Androcles,  from  Samos,  threw  a 
bridge  across  the  Bosphorus,  over  which  Darius  led  the  Per- 
sians into  Europe  against  the  Scythians  ;  one  of  the  rocks 
was  transformed  into  a  throne  for  Darius,  from  which  he  saw 
his  power  pass  away ;  not  a  trace  of  it  is  now  remaining. 
The  holy  Osmans  rest  at  the  foot  of  the  rock  ;  the  ground 
that  the  wild  host  has  trod  is  now  holy  ;  and  the  dark  cy- 
presses stand  guard  around  the  graves.  The  fugitive  birds 
of  the  Bosphorus,  which  the  seamen  call  "the  damned  spirits," 
flew  toward  us,  and  were  away  again  at  the  same  moment. 

Here,  on  the  Asiatic  and  European  sides,  are  the  mighty 
palaces,  Anatoli  Hissari,  and  Rumili  Hissari,  built  to  com- 
mand the  entrance  ;  but  the  port-holes  are  walled  up,  the 
buildings  have  long  since  been  transformed  into  prisons. 
The  palaces,  where  thousands  of  Christians  have  languished, 
are  now  called  "  the  Black  Towers."  The  palace,  on  the  Eu- 
ropean side,  is  singularly  built ;  the  Sultan  Mahmoud  would 
have  it  built  so  as  to  form  his  name,  as  it  is  written  in  Arabian 
characters  ;  hundreds  of  Christian  churches  round  about  had 
to  furnish  materials  for  these  inhabited  ciphers ;  but  no  joy  or 


THE  BOSPHORUS.  263 

gladness  has  breathed  within  them !  death-groans  have  quiv- 
ered through  Mahmoud's  monogram.  Even  though  walled 
fast  with  stone  on  stone,  Time's  strong  finger  will  blot  out  this 
writing  ;  and  where  it  stood  the  earth  will  bear  spring's  poem 
on  her  black  table,  sending  forth  odorous  bushes,  grass,  and 
flowers. 

It  is  most  beautiful  here  on  the  Asiatic  side.  Behind  the 
gloomy  fortress  yonder,  the  valley,  with  "  the  heavenly 
waters,"  stretches  into  the  land,  —  that  of  all  the  valleys  by 
the  Bosphorus  which  is  praised  as  the  finest,  and  whose  nat- 
ural splendor  has  given  the  rivulet  that  runs  through  it  its 
name  ;  but  we  glided  too  quickly  past ;  we  saw  only  so  much 
as  one,  by  looking  into  the  open  eyes  of  a  beautiful  woman, 
can  read  of  her  mental  loveliness. 

The  large  mosque  of  Kandelli  arose  before  us,  as  if  it  were 
Achmet's  church,  borne  hither  by  Mohammed's  angels,  that 
we  might  once  more  be  refreshed  by  the  sight  of  it.  A  little 
village  lay  almost  concealed  between  gigantic  fig-trees,  from 
which  it  took  its  name,  "  the  Fig  Town." 

Sultanje  rose  like  an  amphitheatre  between  weeping-willows, 
plantains,  and  linden-trees,  and  mirrored  itself  in  the  still 
waters  under  the  coast.  The  white,  slender  minaret,  that 
which  in  reality  pointed  toward  heaven,  and  that  which  on 
the  water's  surface  pointed  downward,  seemed  to  say :  "  See 
not  life  only  in  the  sunlight  around  you,  see  it  above  in  the 
chasing  clouds,  and  flying  birds ;  see  it  in  the  throng  on 
the  water  between  the  two  quarters  of  the  world."  And  in 
truth  there  were  life  and  motion  here !  Large  boats,  with 
Turkish  women  enveloped  in  white,  airy  veils,  passed  over 
from  the  one  shore  to  the  other.  One  of  the  youngest  women 
rose  in  one  of  the  boats  directly  under  our  vessel ;  she  looked 
upward,  and  the  Persian  song  about  the  cedar's  growth,  and 
the  tulip's  splendor,  sounded  in  my  ears.  Who  has  not  seen, 
»>n  a  pitchy  night,  the  whole  scenery  around  him  suddenly 
illumined  by  one  single  flash  of  lightning,  and  all  become 
ih^ht  again  ?  But  I  can  never  forget  the  vision  I  now  saw  j 
there  came  two  flashes  —  each  eye  sent  forth  one,  and  then 
it  was  night.  We  no  longer  saw  the  daughter  of  the  East ; 
but  the  poet  has  sung  of  her,  even  centuries  before  our  time. 


2t>4  A   POFT'S  BAZAAR. 

"  If  she  dries  her  locks  with  cloth,  it  then  sheds  the  per- 
fume of  musk  ;  if  she  wipes  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  then 
pearls  roll  down  from  the  cloth  ;  if  it  touches  her  cheek,  it 
is  filled  with  scenting  roses  ;  and  if  she  presses  it  to  her 
mouth,  it  then  incloses  a  fruit  of  paradise  !  " 

I  looked  after  the  boat ;  we  were  far  away  from  it.  The 
women  in  the  white  veils  seemed  spirits  in  Charon's  boat ; 
and  there  was  truth  in  the  thought,  for  what  we  never  more 
shall  see  is  of  the  dead.  She  had  thrown  an  orange  into 
the  water ;  it  rocked  like  a  star  of  memory  that  told  us  of 
this  meeting.  Long  fishing-boats  shot  past  large  vessels  com- 
ing from  the  Black  Sea ;  Russia's  double  eagle  flapped  its 
wings  in  the  proud  flag.  Outside  a  fishing  village  —  I  think 
it  is  called  Baikos  —  there  lay  huts  rocking  on  the  water. 
Around  them  was  an  extended  net,  in  which  they  caught  the 
sword-fish.  I  say  huts,  but  we  might  rather  call  them  baskets, 
and  in  each  sat  a  half-naked  fisherman,  looking  after  his  prey. 

On  the  European  side  we  approached  Therapia,  in  whose 
deep  bay  lay  a  few  large  vessels.  A  little  boat,  rowed  by  an 
old  negro,  passed  us  here.  He  had  a  woolen  frock  on,  such 
as  the  Greeks  wear ;  large  silver  rings  were  pendent  from  his 
ears ;  but  his  head  was  only  covered  with  his  thick  woolly 
hair.  The  boat  was,  literally  speaking,  filled  with  roses.  A 
little  Greek  girl,  with  her  dark  hair  plaited  around  the  red 
fez,  and  a  large  gold  coin  in  it,  stood  leaning  against  one  of 
the  baskets  of  roses  ;  in  her  hand  she  had  one  of  the  Bul- 
garian hand  drums.  The  boat  rocked  with  the  increased 
motion  into  which  the  rapid  course  of  our  vessel  put  the  stream, 
and  the  little  girl  held  faster  to  one  of  the  baskets ;  it  over- 
turned, and  poured  out  its  stream  of  roses  over  her  breast 
and  face.  She  arose  again  ;  and,  when  she  saw  that  we  were 
looking  at  her,  she  laughed  and  beat  her  little  drum,  then 
threw  it  into  the  basket,  and  held  a  handful  of  roses  before 
her  face.  The  boat,  the  negro,  the  little  girl,  and,  as  a  back- 
ground, Therapia,  with  its  gardens,  buildings,  and  ships, 
formed  a  picture  that  deserved  to  be  perpetuated. 

On  wandering  for  the  first  time  through  a  large  and  rich 
gallery  of  paintings,  one  picture  supplants  the  other,  and  the 
Bosphorus  is  just  such  a  picture  gallery,  with  thousands  of 


I 
THE  BOSPHORUS  265 

beautiful  views,  such  as  only  the  greatest  masters  are  capable 
of  giving  us.  I,  who  tell  of  them,  have  only  once  in  my  life 
beheld  these  coasts,  and  then  on  a  steam-vessel  at  its  utmost 
speed. 

A  larger  and  broader  bay  than  we  had  yet  seen,  composed 
the  foreground  of  the  next  picture.  The  summer  residence 
of  the  Ambassador,  Bujukdere,  lay  before  us.  I  sought 
amongst  the  many  flags  that  waved  there  for  that  of  my 
nation  —  and  I  discovered  it.  I  saw  the  white  cross  on  the 
red  ground.  Denmark  had  planted  its  white  Christian  cross 
in  the  Turk's  land ;  the  flag  waved  in  the  wind  —  it  was  as 
if  it  brought  me  a  greeting  from  home.  My  neighbor,  who 
stood  by  the  gunwale,  pointed  to  the  large  aqueduct  with 
the  double  arches,  which  arose  out  of  the  deep  green  valley. 
Another  spoke  about  Medea,  who  had  been  here  where  the 
seamen  now  drew  their  boats  up  under  the  high  plantains  ; 
but  my  eye  and  my  thoughts  were  only  with  the  Danish  flag, 
which  I  now  saw  for  the  first  time  during  all  my  travels,  and 
which  awoke  remembrances  that  softened  the  heart,  and  sank 
mildly  into  the  soul. 

What  imaginable  softness  or  beauty  could  the  shores  of  the 
Bosphorus  show  more  ?  As  if  they  felt  this,  they  suddenly 
changed  into  a  wild  and  rugged  scene.  Yellowish,  split  stone 
blocks  stood  up  out  of  the  water  ;  batteries,  erected  to  protect 
the  Bosphorus  against  the  incursions  of  the  Cossacks,  strength- 
ened the  savage  prospect.  The  tower,  higher  up,  is  called 
Ovid's  tower,  and  the  legend  states,  but  falsely,  that  it  was  here 
the  poet  was  confined,  —  imprisoned  by  the  Black  Sea.  The 
tower  is  now  a  ruin,  which,  when  the  sun  is  down,  is  used  as  a 
light-house.  Large  torches  are  lighted  ;  the  red  flame  shines 
for  the  ships  on  the  Black  Sea. 

Another  small  extent  of  land  on  the  Asiatic  side  is  beauti- 
fully green  ;  but  where  the  shores  approach  nearest  each  other, 
the  wild  rocky  scenery  soon  stands  boldly  forth  on  both  sides. 
The  Bithynian  chain  of  mountains  in  Asia,  and  the  Thracian 
in  Europe,  end  here.  No  more  the  path  winds  along  the  wa- 
ter side  ;  the  wild  goats  climb  up  the  uncouth  rocks.  The 
Black  Sea  lies  before  us ;  and  on  the  point  of  two  quarters  of 
the  globe  lie  the  fire-towers  with  welcome-flame  or  parting-star, 
just  as  the  ship  directs  its  course. 


266  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

Singular  rocky  islands  rise  near  the  coast ;  they  seem  to 
have  been  dashed  against  each  other  ;  one  block  of  stone  ap- 
pears to  hold  on  by  the  other.  The  legend  says  that  they 
were  once  floating  rocks,  and  that  they  crushed  the  vessels 
between  them.  When  the  Argonauts  fortunately  sailed  past 
them  they  were  first  bound  together. 

The  sun  shone  on  the  bare  stones,  the  sea  lay  a  vast  im- 
mensity before  us :  we  darted  into  it.  The  fogs  which,  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  our  voyage  through  the  Bosphorus,  had  risen 
and  fallen  at  intervals,  but  yet  had  never  hidden  the  shores 
from  our  view,  now  dropped  like  a  curtain  that  descends  before 
a  splendid  opera  scene.  At  once  the  coasts  of  Europe  and 
Asia  were  hidden  from  our  sight ;  the  sea-birds  flew  in  circles 
around  the  steamer's  chimney,  and  darted  off  again :  we  only 
saw  sea  and  fog. 

XV. 

THE   BLACK   SEA. 

As  long  as  we  were  in  the  Bosphorus,  we  had  only  an  eye 
to  the  charming  landscapes,  as  they  passed  in  review  ;  these 
now  were  ended.  We  appeared  to  hover  amongst  clouds 
that  hurried  with  greater  rapidity  than  ourselves  over  the 
sea ;  there  was  something  homely  to  me  in  these  North-like 
fogs  ;  it  was  as  if  I  was  sailing  in  the  Cattegat  in  the  month 
of  November.  We  were  obliged  to  wrap  ourselves  up  in  all 
the  winter  clothes  we  had  ;  and  the  further  we  advanced  the 
colder  it  became.  This  clammy  fog  pressed  on  us  for  half  an 
hour,  and  then  it  passed  away  quick  as  lightning.  The  sun 
shone  clear  ;  the  air  became  beautifully  blue,  yet  the  water 
had  not  the  blueness  and  transparency  of  the  Mediterranean. 
The  Black  Sea  has  quite  the  character  of  our  northern  seas ; 
it  has  short  waves  of  a  close,  sullen  hue,  lead-like  when  con- 
trasted with  those  of  the  light,  shining  Mediterranean. 

Our  ship,  which  now  cut  through  the  waters  that  the  Argo- 
nauts once  sailed  over,  was  neither  in  size  nor  convenience  like 
steam-vessels  of  the  first  class ;  and  yet  it  would  in  Jason's 
time  have  been  accounted  a  right  royal  bark  —  nay,  have 


THE  BLACK  SEA.  26? 

been  considered  a  miraculous  work.  Elastic  divans  and  con- 
venient hammocks  surrounded  a  large  ornamental  saloon  with 
mirrors,  pictures,  and  books;  fresh  Egyptian  figs,  plucked 
a  week  before,  were  set  out  on  the  table,  with  grapes  from 
Smyrna,  and  wine  from  the  far  distant  Gaul.  Yet  the  mighty 
necromancer — the  flaming  monster,  which  bore  the  ship  on 
against  wind  and  stream,  lay  within  the  vessel,  and  from 
thence  sent  out  its  breath,  like  coal-black  steam  —  a  cloud 
thai  laid  itself  alortg  the  sea.  Such  marvels  Medea  could  not 
create.  The  discoveries  of  our  time  stand  above  the  mightiest 
witchcraft  of  departed  centuries.  Cunning  and  skill  are  no 
longer  confined  to  individual  spirits ;  they  extend  to  all  man- 
kind. 

On  we  rush,  sometimes  enveloped  in  damp  fogs,  and  some- 
times in  clear  sunshine.  Besides  the  four  previously  named 
passengers  in  the  first  cabin,  there  was  in  the  second  and  third 
another  little  company,  who  were  going  to  Vienna.  The  most 
prominent  passenger  was  Peter  Adam,  an  Armenian  priest,  in 
a  black  habit,  and  with  a  hat  as  large  as  a  knight's  shield. 
He  had  not  seen  his  friends  in  the  Danube's  imperial  city  for 
twenty-five  years,  and  was  now  going  thither  for  a  short  visit, 
as  conductor  of  two  Armenian  boys  —  the  Armenian  Bish- 
op's nephews.  The  elder,  Jeronimus,  with  a  round,  girlish 
face,  was  to  study,  and  be  a  physician  ;  the  younger,  Antonio 
Maruz,  extremely  handsome,  with  wise,  speaking  eyes,  highly 
characteristic  features,  and  a  certain  pride  in  every  motion, 
was  to  be  an  ecclesiastic :  they  both  wore  fez  on  their  heads, 
and  slippers  on  their  feet.  The  departure  from  home  was  al- 
ready forgotten  :  the  elder  boy  lay  stretching  himself  along, 
whilst  he  smoked  his  cigar ;  the  younger  played  with  some 
pictures  of  saints. 

A  young  fat  Jew  who  meddled  in  everything,  a  good-nat- 
ured young  servant,  and  a  seasick  lady's-maid  who  remained 
in  her  hammock,  so  that  we  had  not  yet  seen  her,  three  Ger- 
mans, a  young  Turk,  and  two  Greeks  were  the  rest  of  the 
party,  who  were  to  make  the  whole  voyage  with  us.  The 
others  only  went  with  us  to  Kiistendje  and  Silistria.  We  also 
got  a  tired  flying  passenger  here,  the  same  as  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean :  a  little  bird  rested  with  us  on  the  deck,  ate  bread 


268  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

crumbs,  and  drank  water  from  a  plate.  Toward  evening  it 
flew  away  from  us,  directly  toward  the  East.  I  bade  it  greet 
the  mountains  of  Caucasus  ;  greet  the  wild  forests  by  the 
rivers  where  the  tiger  quenches  his  thirst ;  greet  the  city  of 
Tiflis  and  Circassia's  beautiful  women  !  I  would  gladly  have 
seen  everything  in  the  East,  but  this  time,  at  least,  I  could 
not.  We  steered  toward  the  North,  our  wet,  stormy  way.1 
The  stars  twinkled  as  brightly  as  over  Greece  and  the  Medi- 
terranean, but  it  was  cold  here.  We  might 'easily  imagine  that 
we  were  making  a  summer  expedition  to  Spitzbergen,  and  not 
a  voyage  on  the  Black  Sea  in  the  month  of  May. 

At  night  I  was  awakened  by  their  casting  anchor.  The  fog 
was  so  thick  that  the  captain,  in  whose  thoughts  the  wreck  of 
the  Stamboul  still  lay,  durst  not  sail  longer.  In  the  morning 
it  cleared  up  a  little,  and  we  started  off,  but  in  a  few  minutes 
we  again  lay  still.  It  was  as  if  a  thick  steam  swelled  out  of 
the  sea ;  large  drops  of  water  stood  on  the  deck  and  gun- 
wale ;  the  shrouds  were  as  wet  as  if  they  had  been  just  drawn 
from  the  bottom  of  the  ocean. 

At  once  the  sun  broke  through  the  mist ;  the  coast  was  vis- 
ible, but  low  and  uninhabited  ;  not  a  tree,  not  a  sea-mark  was 
to  be  seen  :  but  the  captain  read  on  the  flat  outline  of  the 
land  that  we  had  come  almost  eight  miles  more  to  the  north 
than  we  should  have  done.  The  vessel  was  soon  turned,  and 
it  went  over  the  green  foaming  waves  toward  a  little  bay. 
The  anchor  fell,  and  the  sick  lady's-maid  then  ascended  to 
the  deck,  smiling  toward  the  coast,  which  did  not  smile  again. 
Farewell  to  thee,  sea  of  the  Argonauts  !  If  I  do  not  bring 
the  golden  fleece  of  poesy,  yet  I  bring  that  of  memory  from 
the  East  over  thy  waters. 

1  It  is  highly  dangerous  in  winter  and  autumn  to  traverse  this  part  of 
the  Black  Sea,  in  particular  between  the  Bosphorus  and  Odessa ;  many 
ships  are  lost :  the  winter  preceding  my  voyage,  the  Austrian  steamer,  Serl 
Pfrvtu,  and  a  Russian,  The  Neva,  were  both  wrecked  hers. 


THE  STEPPE-JOURNEY.  269 

XVI. 

A  STEPPE-JOURNEY    BETWEEN   THE    BLACK    SEA  AND   THE 

DANUBE. 

KUSTENDJE  presents  a  low  coast,  the  declivities  of  which 
are  a  lime  soil  with  shells ;  not  a  tree,  not  a  bush  is  to  be 
seen.  Here  lay  a  few  cottages  without  windows,  with  rush- 
roofs  inclining  toward  the  ground,  and  inclosed  by  a  stone 
fence.  A  flag  waved,  and  a  group  of  close-veiled  women 
watched  our  arrival. 

Our  boat  went  on  through  a  heavy  surf  toward  the  land, 
where  some  noisy  Tartars  received  us. 

The  landing-place  consisted  of  fallen  blocks  of  stone,  be- 
tween which  the  people  had  thrown  a  mass  of  grass-turf  to 
level  it  a  little ;  the  wooden  huts  seemed  to  have  been  erected 
in  the  greatest  haste  ;  the  whole  coast  announced  a  desert 
where  dwellings  had  been  run  up  yesterday  or  to-day.  They 
threw  our  luggage  into  a  couple  of  wagons  drawn  by  oxen, 
and  we  went  toward  the  inn,  —  a  very  respectable  place  in 
this  neighborhood,  and  particularly  inviting  from  its  cleanli- 
ness. A  balcony  with  a  projecting  roof  of  reeds,  led  into 
the  best  room,  which  was  appropriated  to  the  passengers  in 
the  first  cabin. 

Whilst  the  dinner  was  preparing,  we  sauntered  through  the 
town. 

Kiistendje  was  completely  destroyed  by  the  Russians  in 
1809  ;  everything  appeared  as  if  this  destruction  had  taken 
place  a  few  weeks  ago ;  miserable,  half-fallen-down  houses 
formed  the  main  street,  which  was  pretty  broad  ;  here  and 
there  lay  columns  of  marble  and  gray  stone  that  seemed  to 
belong  to  a  former  period.  On  several  of  the  houses,  the 
roof  or  projecting  story  was  supported  by  a  wooden  beam 
resting  on  an  antique  marble  capital.  The  minaiet  on  the 
only  and  half-ruined  mosque  in  the  town  was  built  of  planks, 
and  whitewashed.  A  coffee-house  was  not  wanting  ;  but  its 
appearance,  like  that  of  the  guests,  was  extremely  wretched. 
Here  lay  a  few  Turks  on  the  jutting  balcony  ;  they  smoked 
their  pipes,  drank  their  coffee,  and  appeared  not  to  take  any 
notice  of  us  strangers. 


270  A   POET'S  BAZA  AX. 

A  couple  of  terribly  ragged  men,  with  long  beards,  turban, 
caftan,  and  morocco  slippers,  came  along  the  street,  and  gath- 
ered sweepings  for  fuel,  as  wood  is  not  to  be  found  at  less  than 
many  miles'  distance. 

Close  by  the  town  were  some  considerable  remains  of 
Trajan's  walls,  which  are  said  to  have  extended  from  Kiis- 
tendje  along  the  Black  Sea  to  the  Danube.  As  far  as  we 
could  see  around,  we  could  discern  nothing  but  sea  or  an  im- 
mense steppe,  not  a  house,  not  the  smoke  from  a  herdsman's 
fire  ;  no  herds  of  cattle,  no  living  object ;  all  was  an  inter- 
minable green  field.  Near  the  town  were  some  few  spots 
without  any  fence,  where  the  corn  was  growing  no  higher  than 
the  grass,  and  of  the  same  color. 

I  bent  my  steps  to  the  sea,  close  by  which,  directly  under 
the  declivity,  a  dead  stork  was  the  first  thing  my  eye  fell 
upon  ;  it  lay  with  one  wing  stretched  out,  and  the  neck  bent ; 
I  became  quite  melancholy  on  seeing  it.  The  stork  has 
always  been  the  most  interesting  of  all  birds  to  me ;  it  has 
occupied  my  thoughts  when  a  child  ;  it  haunts  my  novels  and 
tales  ;  and  it  was  now  the  first  thing  I  saw  as  I  was  wending 
homeward  by  sea.  It  had  just  reached  these  coasts,  and 
there  died.  A  superstitious  thought  crossed  my  mind,  —  and 
no  one  can  certainly  say  that  in  his  whole  life  he  has  been 
free  from  superstition,  —  perhaps  I  also  shall  just  reach  across 
the  sea,  and  my  life's  career  is  ended. 

As  I  regarded  the  bird,  the  wet  fog  came  rapidly  on  over 
sea  and  shore,  so  thick  and  close  that  I  feared  I  should 
not  be  able  to  find  my  way  back  to  the  inn.  I  could  not 
see  four  paces  before  me,  but  went  in  a  straight  dir  ; 

climbed  over  a  stone  fence,  and  so  came  by  quite  another  but 
shorter  way  to  the  inn,  where  an  excellent  meal  awaited  me  ; 
so  well  prepared,  that  if  all  my  readers  cry  out  :  "  What ! 
shall  we  now  have  a  description  of  the  dinner  ? "  they  must, 
nevertheless,  hear  it.  The  viands  were  excellent,  as  was 
all  beside,  and  —  as  we  learned  the  day  after  —  so  incred- 
ibly cheap  that  none  of  us  had  ever  before  experienced  a 
like  tenderness  to  our  pockets.  We  wrote  down  the  host 
and  hostess'  name,  and  promised  to  praise  and  extend  their 
inn  as  far  as  we  could.  I  will  do  my  part  thereto,  and 


A  STEPPE-JOURNEY.  2fl 

therefore  beg  to  state,  that  the  man  is  an  Austrian,  his  name, 
Thomas  Radicsevitch,  and  he  lives  at  the  corner  of  the  Black 
Sea! 

After  dinner,  our  luggage  was  packed  in  large  wagons, 
made  entirely  of  wood,  to  be  sent  off  to  the  Danube  ;  and  as 
they  were  drawn  by  oxen,  they  said  it  would  occupy  the  whole 
afternoon,  night,  and  the  following  day  to  reach  Czerna-Woda ; 
that  we  must  stay  in  Kiistendje  that  night,  and  that  by  starting 
in  the  morning  we  should  arrive  the  same  time  as  the  luggage. 
Wallachian  peasants,  clothed  in  short  sheepskin  cloaks,  and 
with  black  felt  hats,  the  immense  brims  of  which  literally 
hung  like  an  umbrella  over  their  shoulders  and  backs,  accom- 
panied the  wagons.  They  assured  us  that  the  country  was 
perfectly  quiet,  and  that  we  should  meet  none  on  our  steppe- 
journey  but  Wallachian  nomads. 

A  thick,  damp  fog  poured  forth  again  from  the  sea  over  the 
whole  neighborhood  ;  the  loaded  wagons,  which  now  drove 
away,  disappeared,  as  in  a  cloud,  at  a  few  paces  from  us,  and 
it  was  as  cold  as  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean. 

Mine  host  told  us  about  these  severe  changes  in  the  air ;  of 
the  terrible  storms  of  the  previous  winter,  and  of  the  cold. 
The  ice  had  lain  for  several  miles  out  into  the  sea,  and  they 
could  drive  on  it  from  Kiistendje  down  to  Warna.  He  told 
us  about  the  snow-storm  which  drove  the  herdsmen  with  their 
flocks  over  the  steppe  ;  and  about  the  wild  dogs,  of  which  we 
saw  several.  Whole  packs  of  these  howling  animals  pass 
through  Bulgaria  and  Roumelia,  particularly  in  the  winter  sea- 
son. They  often  meet  with  the  wolves,  and  then  the  combat 
is  equally  severe  on  both  sides.  It  sometimes  happens  that  a 
she-wolf  gets  mixed  with  the  dogs,  and  then  she  is  obliged  to 
keep  with  them.  The  young  cubs  are  not  to  be  distinguished 
from  her  own  race,  and  she  suckles  them  with  the  utmost  ten- 
derness ;  but,  when  they  are  a  few  days  old,  she  drags  them 
down  to  the  river,  and  if  they  lap  the  water  as  the  dogs  do, 
with  the  tongue,  she  tears  them  to  pieces  ;  for  instinct  tells  her 
that  they  are  the  worst  foes  to  her  race. 

Toward  evening  the  weather  was  fine.  I  wandered  with 
Mr.  Ainsworth  along  the  sea-shore  to  collect  stones  and 
shells.  We  passed  the  dead  stork  ;  close  by  it  lay  another 


272  A   FOETUS  BAZAAR. 

poor  dead  animal.  I  had  seen  it  before,  but  did  not  lake 
much  notice  of  it  then  ;  and  yet  it  was,  perhaps,  more  inter- 
esting than  the  stork.  It  was  a  large  poodle-dog,  certainly 
cast  out  of  a  ship,  and  driven  on  land  here.  A  sea  and 
air  romance  might  be  written  about  these  two.  Of  the  last 
we  have  none,  but  we  shall  have  them  soon,  now  that  balloons 
are  so  plentiful. 

On  our  way  back  we  visited  one  of  those  wretched  Tartar 
cabins,  with  its  rush-roof  inclining  nearly  to  the  ground.  We 
actually  crept  down  into  the  room,  which  looked  just  like  a 
large  chimney.  The  walls  were  thick  with  soot ;  everything 
above  us  was  lost  in  smoke.  An  unveiled  Tartar  girl  stood 
by  the  fire  roasting  meat  on  a  stick.  She  was  not  exactly 
pretty  ;  her  features  were  too  coarse  ;  her  eyes  of  too  light 
a  blue,  but  her  figure  and  carriage  were  good.  A  painter 
might  have  got  a  subject  here  for  a  characteristic  picture 
with  a  double  light  —  the  fire  within  the  hut,  and  the  evening 
sun,  which  shone  in,  blood-red,  at  the  low  doorway. 

We  came  out  again,  and  the  moon  stood  round  and  large 
over  the  sea.  A  bowl  of  punch  steamed  on  the  table  at  the 
inn.  We  passed  a  comfortable  merry  evening  here ;  German 
entertainment,  German  language  and  comforts,  made  us  think 
that  we  were  removed,  by  magic,  from  the  East  into  the  midst 
of  Germany.  Broad  divans  with  rush  mats  extended  round  the 
room,  under  the  windows,  and  along  the  walls  ;  on  these  were 
couches.  I  could  not  sleep ;  the  rush  of  the  waves  over  the 
breakers  sounded  like  thunder.  I  saw  the  wide  and  bound- 
less sea  radiant  with  the  beams  of  the  clear,  round  moon. 

Our  journey  was  fixed  for  the  next  morning  early.  Peasants 
came  with  lively  Wallachian  horses,  which  pranced  outside 
our  door.  Two  of  them  got  loose,  sprang  over  a  stone  fence, 
and  struck  out  with  their  hind  legs — such  a  screaming  and 
shouting  on  a  sudden  !  I  went,  in  the  mean  time,  once  more 
to  the  sea  to  bid  it  farewell.  The  open  salt  sea,  which  I  love, 
I  was  not  to  see  again  before  I  reached  the  Danish  coast. 

At  length  the  procession  was  arranged  ;  our  host,  in  his  old 
Austrian  uniform,  rode  before,  and  we  followed  at  a  rapid  pace 
through  the  town  out  into  the  open  boundless  steppe.  During 
the  whole  of  our  day's  journey  the  lake  of  Kurasu,  which  is 


A  STEPPE-JOURNEY.  2?$ 

said  to  be  the  remains  of  the  canal  by  which  Trajan  united 
the  Danube  and  the  Black  Sea,  lay  on  our  left.  It  would 
be  an  easy  matter  to  repair  the  damage,  yet  it  would  be  less 
expensive  to  lay  down  a  railway  on  this  level  extent  of  land. 
The  only  difficulty  in  the  execution  of  sucn  a  project  might 
be,  that  which  would  be  made  from  the  Turkish  side.  It  is 
said  to  have  been  a  matter  of  much  difficulty  for  the  com- 
mittee of  the  Danube  Steam  Navigation  Company  to  obtain 
permission  to  erect  inns  and  offices  here,  that  their  travel- 
lers might  pass  this  shorter  way  through  the  country.  The  per- 
mission, I  was  told,  was  entitled  "  For  the  Austrian  Committee, 
family  and  friends  of  the  Danube  Steam  Navigation  Company." 

We  went  past  some  barricades  from  the  last  Russian  war. 
They  were  quite  undermined  by  the  wild  dogs,  which  find  a 
cool  retreat  in  these  holes  from  the  heat  of  summer,  when 
the  sun  burns  on  the  shadowless  steppe,  and  warmth  and 
shelter  in  the  winter,  when  the  storm  and  snow  whistle  over 
their  heads. 

At  length  we  reached  a  village  where  every  house  looked 
like  a  dunghill  on  a  heap  of  stones.  To  the  left  stood  a  few 
gray  stone  columns  of  a  ruined  cloister.  We  drove  past, 
and  the  green  solitary  steppe  alone  extended  before  and  on  all 
sides  of  us.  Three  Turks,  in  various  colored  dresses,  with 
turban  and  fluttering  caftan,  came  riding  in  a  wild  flight 
directly  toward  us.  It  was  just  such  a  picture  as  Horace 
Vernet  has  given  us.  "  Allah  ekber  !  "  was  their  greeting. 

In  the  midst  of  the  silent  steppe  lay  a  deserted  Turkish 
burial-ground,  with  broken  grave-stones.  The  turban  was  only 
to  be  seen  on  a  few ;  not  a  cypress,  not  a  bush  cast  its  shade 
over  the  dead  ;  the  village  that  had  lain  here  was  blotted  out 
from  the  earth  ! 

Even  the  most  insignificant  object  awakens  our  attention. 
On  a  monotonous  plain,  a  large  eagle  sat  in  the  grass,  and 
kept  its  place  until  we  were  within  fifty  paces  of  it.  We  saw 
herds  of  cattle,  which  at  a  distance  looked  like  a  whole  army  of 
warriors.  The  Wallachian  herdsmen  resembled  wild  men ; 
they  wore  long  sheepskin  clothes  with  the  woolly  side  turned 
outward,  immense  hats,  or  else  a  narrow  cap  of  hairy  skin. 
Long,  black  wiry  hair  hung  over  their  shoulders,  and  they  all 
18 


274  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

carried  a  long  axe.  The  sun  burnt  as  I  have  never  yet  felt  it 
The  warmth  poured  forth  over  us;  we  almost  languished  with 
thirst.  Most  of  the  travellers  spread  their  handkerchiefs  over 
some  little  water-pits,  swarming  with  insects,  and  sucked  in 
the  water.  I  was  only  able  to  wet  my  lips.  In  the  midst  of 
this  warmth,  in  the  burning  heat  of  the  sun,  the  Wallachian 
herdsmen  stood  in  their  heavy  skin  mantles,  leaning  on  their 
axes  —  the  poor  nomads !  I  heard  their  songs  ;  the  melody 
still  sounds  in  my  ears.  I  must  put  words  to  it. 

"  Thou  green  willow,  with  the  hanging  boughs  !  where  the 
Cossack  leans  on  his  lance  in  the  Czar's  land  ;  where  the  sun 
glitters  on  the  Austrian  sabre  and  on  Mohammed's  minaret ; 
where  two  rivers  separate  three  emperors'  lands,  there  stood 
my  father's  hanging  wooden  house  amongst  the  rushes  ;  close 
by  grew  the  green  willows  !  I  watched  the  herd  ;  I  drove  it 
into  Bessarabia's  steppes,  solitary  and  alone  !  But  the  night 
has  stars,  the  heart  has  thoughts  !  thou  green  willow  with  the 
hanging  boughs ! 

"  I  watched  the  herd  on  the  steppe,  when  the  vernal  sun 
broke  forth  ;  but  the  clouds  vanquished,  the  rain  poured  down 
in  streams  ;  the  rain  became  snow  in  the  air,  and  the  storm 
forged  icy  arrows  that  came  darting  against  my  face  ;  the  icy 
arrows  pierced  through  the  sheep's  thick  wool  ;  the  herd  be- 
came shy,  it  fled  before  the  storm  ;  we  ran  and  we  flew  by 
day  and  by  night  wherever  the  storm  drove  us.  The  dead 
alone  remained  behind,  thou  green  willow  with  the  hanging 
boughs  I 

"  Where  is  there  shelter,  where  is  there  lee  on  the  extended 
steppe  I  The  storm  drove  us  away,  herd  and  herdsman.  We 
could  not  turn  our  faces  against  the  mouth  of  the  storm  from 
whence  the  icy  arrows  flew  !  Before  us  lay  the  sea  under  the 
steep  cliffs  !  What  a  flight,  what  a  fright !  a  driving  snow,  a 
flying  herd  !  But  there  were  huts  by  the  declivity,  there  were 
strong  men  ;  the  whole  herd  was  saved,  and  I  again  saw  the 
two  rivers  that  separate  three  emperors'  lands!  thou  green 
willow  with  the  hanging  boughs  I 

"  The  sun  burns  hot  in  the  Turks'  land !  I  sleep  in  the 
caves  that  the  wild  dogs  have  dug ;  I  see  strange  men  and 


A   STEPPE-JOURNEY.  2  75 

women  hurry  rapidly  past  me  ;  they  seem  to  be  chased,  as  I 
was  chased,  in  the  snow-storm  !  Do  they  think,  what  I  then 
thought,  and  what  I  now  think,  leaning  on  my  axe  here  in  the 
hot  sun  ?  No,  they  have  none  that  resembles  her  I  know,  and 
thou  knowest,  thou  green  willow  with  the  hanging  boughs  !" 

The  poor  nomads !  we  hurry  past  them.  A  little  khan 
erected  for  travellers  stood  very  invitingly  on  the  way  :  the 
coffee  was  boiled,  the  food  we  brought  with  us  was  consumed  ; 
we  were  ourselves  both  host  and  guests.  No  one  lived  here  ; 
the  doors  and  windows  were  locked  again  when  we  had  rested  ; 
and  away  we  went  in  the  same  direction  as  before,  with  re- 
newed speed.  The  country  now  became  more  hilly ;  and 
grass-grown  Wallachia  showed  itself  like  a  green  sea  toward 
the  horizon. 

The  hills  we  passed  were  covered  with  low  leaf-trees,  beech 
and  birch ;  the  whole  had  a  Danish  character,  wild  and  smil- 
ing. We  were  now  in  Czerna-Woda,  which  is  an  excellent 
sample  of  a  ruined  town;  the  one  house  seemed  as  if  it 
would  surpass  the  other  in  the  picturesque  beauty  of  decay. 
On  one,  the  roof  consisted  of  only  three  or  four  beams,  on 
which  lay  a  few  wisps  of  reeds ;  another  house,  on  the  con- 
trary, had  its  roof  entire,  which  extended  straight  down  to 
the  ground.  A  large  swarm  of  children  poured  out  of  every 
door  or  rather  hole  ;  most  of  the  little  ones  were  quite  naked  ; 
one  certainly  had  a  sheepskin  cap  on  its  head,  but  that  was 
its  sole  article  of  raiment ;  another  boy  had  his  father's  large 
caftan  about  him,  but  the  caftan  stood  open,  and  we  could 
see  that  he  had  nothing  on  but  that. 

The  Danube  had  flowed  high  up  over  the  meadows ;  the 
water  splashed  under  the  horses'  feet.  The  Austrian  flag 
waved  on  the  steamship  Argo,  which  called  us  to  our  home. 
Within  was  a  saloon  with  mirrors,  books,  maps,  and  elastic 
divans ;  the  table  was  spread  with  steaming  dishes,  fruits,  and 
wine :  all  was  very  good  on  board 


THE  PASSAGE  OF  THE  DANUBE. 
I. 

FROM   CZERNA-WODA   TO   RUSTZUK. 

IT  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  our  voyage  up 
the  Danube  began.  The  crew  on  board  was  Italian. 
The  captain,  Marco  Dobroslavich,  a  Dalmatian,  an  excellent, 
humorous  old  fellow,  soon  became  endeared  to  us  all.  He 
treated  the  sailors  like  dogs,  and  yet  he  was  inwardly  beloved 
by  them  ;  they  always  looked  pleased  when  he  knocked  them 
aside,  for  he  had  always  a  piece  of  ready  wit  that  was  worth 
the  beating.  During  the  several  days  and  nights  we  were  on 
board  here,  no  one  was  more  active  or  in  better  humor  than 
our  old  captain.  In  the  middle  of  the  night,  when  they  could 
sail,  his  commanding  voice  was  always  heard  in  the  same  hu- 
mor, always  ready  with  a  "  blowing  up,"  or  a  witticism,  and  at 
the  dinner-table  he  was  a  jovial,  good-natured  host.  He  was 
certainly  the  pearl  amongst  the  Danube  captains  with  whom 
we  came  in  connection.  They  constantly  diminished  in  amia- 
bility ;  more  and  more  we  felt  our  comfort  decrease,  and  we 
naturally  came  more  together,  and  in  closer  connection  with 
foreign  people,  as  we  proceeded.  As  we  got  nearer  to  Pesth 
and  Vienna,  the  company  became  so  great,  that  one  cared 
nothing  about  the  other.  But  we  were  quite  at  home  with 
old  Marco,  who  treated  us  like  part  of  his  own  family. 

The  whole  of  our  afternoon's  sailing  tour  from  Czerna- 
Woda  was  between  flooded  islands,  where  the  tops  of  willows 
and  the  gable-end  of  a  reed  hut  stuck  out  of  the  water.  We 
had  nowhere  yet  seen  the  Danube  in  all  its  breadth.  We 
passed  a  merry  evening  in  the  well-lighted,  pretty  cabin.  The 
champagne  corks  flew.  The  taste  of  rye-bread  in  the  genuine 
Tokay  reminded  me  of  the  land  of  rye,  the  distant  Denmark. 
The  night,  however,  was  not  like  the  evening.  Our  blood 


FROM  CZERNA-WODA    TO  RUSTZUK.  277 

flowed  under  the  coast  of  Bulgaria.  In  these  marshy  coun- 
tries the  summer  heat  not  only  hatches  fevers,  but  millions  of 
poisonous  gnats,  which  plague  the  inhabitants  of  the  coasts 
and  the  crews  of  the  river  vessels  in  the  most  frightful  manner. 
Innumerable  swarms  of  gnats  had  been  generated  during  the 
few  past  nights,  and  they  streamed  in  to  us  through  the  open 
hatches.  No  one  had,  as  yet,  suspected  their  existence  ;  they 
fell  upon  us  and  stung  so  that  the  blood  stood  in  drops  over 
our  faces  and  hands. 

Early  in  the  morning,  even  before  the  sun  arose,  we  were 
all  on  deck,  each  with  a  bleeding  and  swelled  face.  We  had 
passed  the  Turkish  fortress,  Silistria,  at  midnight,  and  had 
several  Turks,  deck-passengers,  on  board.  They  lay  wrapped 
up  in  large  carpets,  and  slept  amongst  the  coal -sacks. 

It  was  now  day.  The  islands  of  the  Danube  lay  under  wa- 
ter :  they  looked  like  swimming  woods  about  to  dive  under. 
The  whole  of  the  Wallachian  side  offered  a  prospect  of  endless 
green  plain,  whose  only  variation  was  a  ruined  guard-house, 
built  of  clay  and  straw ;  or  an  oblong,  whitewashed,  quaran- 
tine building  with  a  red  roof.  There  was  no  garden,  not  a 
single  tree  ;  the  building  stood  alone,  like  the  circumnaviga- 
tor's ship  on  a  calm,  untravelled  sea. 

The  coast  of  Bulgaria,  on  the  contrary,  rose  with  its  under- 
wood and  bushes.  The  fat  soil  appeared  particularly  well 
suited  for  agriculture.  Large  districts  lay  completely  waste. 
Thousands  emigrate  from  Europe  to  America  ;  how  much  bet- 
ter a  home  could  they  not  find  here  ?  Here  is  fertile  arable 
land  close  by  "Europe's  largest  river  —  the  highway  to  the 
East. 

The  first  town  greeted  us  on  the  Bulgarian  side.  It  was 
Tuturcan  ;  a  little  garden  was  planted  before  every  house. 
Half-naked  boys  ran  along  the  shore,  and  shouted  "  Urolaht"  * 
Here  everything  announced  peace  and  safety  ;  the  disturbances 
in  the  country  had  not  yet  reached  these  shores.  However, 
we  learned  from  the  Turks  whom  we  had  taken  on  board  the 
previous  night  at  Silistria,  that  several  fugitives  had  crossed 
the  Danube,  to  seek  refuge  in  Bucharest.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  mountains  revok  and  death  were  raging. 

1  A  happy  voyage !  • 


278  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

Above  Tuturcan,  we  passed  a  highly  picturesque,  hollow 
way.  Luxuriant  hedges  hung  down  over  it  from  the  high  de- 
clivities of  red-brown  earth.  A  troop  of  beautiful  black  horses 
were  driven  down  here  to  the  river  to  be  ferried  over.  One  of 
them,  in  particular,  was  noticeable,  partly  for  its  lively  action, 
and  partly  for  its  jet-black  color  and  long  flowing  inane.  It 
pranced  upon  the  slope,  and  the  earth  flew  from  its  hoofs. 

Thou  wild  horse !  Thou  wilt,  perhaps,  bear  the  young 
royal  bride,  be  patted  by  her  delicate  hand,  and  thy  shining 
black  sides  be  covered  with  variegated  carpets  !  Dost  thou 
dance  because  thou  now  seest  thy  new  father-land  on  yonder 
side  of  the  river  ?  Or  wilt  thou  become  the  progenitor  of  a  race 
in  Wallachia,  a  hundred  times  as  great  as  the  troop  that  now 
surrounds  thee  ?  Thy  name  stands  topmost  in  the  pedigree  ! 
The  boys'  shout  is  for  thee,  thou  beautiful,  spirited  animal  ! 
Urolahl  Urolah  I 

The  next  hamlet  we  reached  on  the  Bulgarian  side,  Havai, 
lay  like  a  charming  episode  in  a  small  Turkish  novel.  Wild 
roses  bloomed  in  the  warm  sunshine.  Hedges,  trees,  and 
houses  were  grouped  with  peculiar  beauty  around  the  white 
minaret ;  yes  a  novelist  might  be  satisfied  to  lay  the  scene  of 
his  plot  here  ;  and  such  a  one  may  appear,  for  Havai  affords 
materials  for  a  novel  and  that  an  historical  one.  The  deceased 
Sultan  Mahmoud,  father  of  Abdul  Meschid,  once  made  a  voy- 
age up  the  Danube  :  a  terrible  storm  came  on  and  the  vessel 
was  near  sinking,  but  they  reached  Havai.  There  the  believ- 
ers' ruler  effected  a  landing,  where  an  odoriferous  rose-hedge 
swung  its  sacrificial  bowl  for  him.  The  Sultan  remained  here 
one  night.  Whether  he  slept  well  and  had  pleasant  dreams  I 
know  not ;  but  that  night  is  now  a  pleasant  dream  that  is  past, 
to  the  inhabitants  of  Havai. 

Not  far  from  hence  we  saw  the  first  water-mills.  They 
stand  on  fast  tethered  river  vessels  ;  and,  when  the  winter 
comes,  they  are  drawn  up  on  land  under  lee  of  the  bushes. 
The  family  then  sit  within  the  silent  mill ;  the  tabor  sends 
forth  its  cracked  sounds  ;  the  flute,  too,  has  one  monotonous 
tone,  as  if  they  had  learned  it  from  the  cricket.  The  family 
grow  tired  of  their  life  on  shore,  and  long  for  the  vernal  spring, 
that  the  mill  may  rock  again  on  the  rushing  stream.  The 


FROM  CZERNA-WODA    TO  RUSTZUtf. 

wheels  clatter,  life  moves,  and  they  themselves  stand  at  their 
door  and  fish  as  the  steam-vessel  darts  past. 

The  sun  burned  warm,  our  tented  canopy  afforded  us  shade  ; 
but  the  air  was  heated  as  in  an  oven,  and  its  heat  increased. 
Nothing  refreshed  the  body,  nothing  the  spirit ;  all  round 
about  was  the  same  green  ;  we  sailed  on  and  on,  as  if  between 
parsley  and  asparagus  beds.  The  warmth  became  more  and 
more  oppressive  ;  we  felt  as  if  we  were  in  a  bathing-room  sur- 
rounded by  dry  steam  ;  but  there  came  no  cooling  plunging- 
bath.  There  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky  !  To  such  a  degree 
of  warmth  my  fancy  has  never  elevated  itself  in  my  cool  father- 
land ! 

At  length  we  saw  a  town  on  the  Wallachian  side.  It  was 
Giurgevo,1  whose  fortresses  were  destroyed  by  the  Russians. 
A  number  of  the  townspeople  had  assembled  on  these  ruins 
of  walls.  There  was  a  shouting  and  asking  about  the  state  of 
health  in  Constantinople,2  and  about  the  disturbances  in  the 
country.  The  sun  was  just  going  down.  The  church-tower 
of  the  town,  which  had  lately  been  covered  with  shining  tin, 
glittered  as  if  it  were  of  silver ;  it  affected  the  eyes  to  look  at 
it.  A  summer-like  tone  of  atmosphere  lay  over  the  flat,  green 
meadows ;  the  marsh  birds  flew  out  of  the  rushes.  Yellow 
cliffs  arose  on  the  Bulgarian  side  ;  we  steered  in  under  them  ; 
and,  whilst  we  still  beheld  the  shining  tower  in  Giurgevo,  we 
were  under  houses  and  gardens  which  form  the  suburbs  to  a 
considerable  Bulgarian  city,  Rustzuk  ;  a  number  of  minarets, 
the  one  close  to  the  other,  announced  that  it  must  be  a  real 
city  of  believers.  The  whole  quay  and  pier  were  filled  with 
men,  amongst  whom  there  was  a  strange  movement.  We 
were  close  to  the  landing-place,  when  two  persons,  both  in 
Prankish  dresses,  sprang  into  the  water,  one  on  each  side 
of  the  narrow  bridge.  They  both  swam  toward  land :  the  one 
was  helped  up ;  but  they  drove  the  other  back  with  horrid 
screams,  and  even  threw  stones  at  him.  He  turned  toward 
our  ship,  and  cried  out  to  us  in  French :  "  Help !  they  will 

1  From  hence  it  is  but  six  hours'  travelling  to  Bucharest,  the  capital  of 
Wallachia. 

2  There  was  no  plague  there  at  that  time  ;  but  it  raged  in  Alexandria  and 
Cairo.     I  heard  by  letter,  whilst  I  wat>  at  Pera,  that,  in  the  two  last  named 
places,  there  died  daily  several  hundreds  of  persons. 


28O  *   POETS  BAZAAR 

murder  me !  "  A  couple  of  our  sailors  jumped  into  a  boat, 
and  hauled  him  up.  Our  vessel  turned  off  from  lind  again ; 
all  the  crew  and  all  the  passengers  flocked  to  the  gunwale. 

Perhaps  the  troubles  of  travel  were  now  to  begin  in  a  re- 
volted land  !  How  stood  matters  in  Rustzuk  ?  A  few  mo- 
ments of  anxious  uncertainty  succeeded.  Some  signals  were 
made,  and  answered  :  soldiers  appeared  on  the  bridge  ;  a 
boat  was  rowed  out  to  us  with  the  petty  Pasha  of  the  town, 
Hephys.1  A  few  of  his  officers  accompanied  him  on  board, 
and  the  manner  in  which  they  did  so  appeared  singularly 
strange.  One  held  him  by  each  wrist,  another  by  each  elbow, 
and  another  by  each  shoulder.  Thus  they  proceeded  to  the 
captain's  cabin,  in  which  they  were  served  with  preserved 
fruits  and  liqueurs.  The  Pasha  afterwards  visited  the  different 
cabins,  accompanied  in  the  same  manner  as  before,  only  that 
two  young  Turks  bore  lighted  candles  before  him. 

With  respect  to  the  fracas,  it  was  merely  a  private  affair  ; 
the  two  persons  engaged  in  it  were  the  director  of  the  quar- 
antine, a  Turk,  and  the  doctor,  a  Frenchman.  They  stood  in 
each  other's  way  in  many  respects,  and  as  this  was  the  case 
once  more  on  the  pier,  they  had  pushed  each  other  about,  and 
the  Turks  took  the  Turk's  part. 

The  doctor  had,  in  the  mean  time,  been  clothed  anew  on 
board,  and  under  the  Pasha's  protection  he  left  our  vessel, 
which  now  lay  alongside  the  pier  from  whence  the  soldiers 
had  driven  the  crowd.  Coal  was  now  taken  in  ;  it  was  a  dark 
evening,  only  one  lantern  gave  light  from  the  shrouds.  All  was 
still  in  Rustzuk  ;  a  houseless  dog  howled  once ;  the  muezzins 
cried  the  hour  from  the  minarets ;  a  single  lantern  moved 
through  the  dark,  solitary  streets. 

Our  beds  were  hung  round  with  green  crape  to  protect  us 
from  the  poisonous  gnats.  My  company  sat  down,  however, 
to  play  cards  ;  but  I,  who  do  not  know  a  single  game,  could 
not.  The  chart  of  the  Danube  was  my  card  ;  I  studied  the 
imperishable  highway  to  the  East,  which  will,  year  after  year, 
be  more  and  more  visited,  and  then  bear  on  its  rapid  stream 
poets  who  know  how  to  extol  the  treasures  of  poetry  that  every 
bush  and  every  stone  here  contain. 

1  There  were  no  less  than  three  Pashas  in  kust/uk  ;  the  chief  is  Mersa 
Said,  the  next  is  Mohammed,  and  the  third  is  Hephys. 


WR  SAIL  I  28l 

II. 

WE  SAIL! 

THE  morning  is  so  beautiful !  What  an  expanse  of  green 
plain  !  what  a  sweet  scent  of  hay !  Are  we  in  Denmark ' 
See  what  a  swarm  of  flowers  !  see,  grass-grown  hills,  and  bar- 
rows as  in  Zealand ;  the  hand  of  man  has  formed  them  ! 
Everything  is  so  pastoral,  so  Danish  —  and  yet  we  are  not  in 
Denmark  !  that  green  plain  where  the  hay  sheds  its  perfume 
is  Wallachian ;  the  barrows  and  mounds  to  the  right  are  in 
Bulgaria.  Close  to  the  shore  there  is  a  hut ;  it  is  only  a  rush 
mat  thrown  over  two  posts  ;  the  herdsman's  family  sit  outside  ; 
the  large  dog  barks  at  our  rushing  vessel. 

Here  are  fresh  faces  on  board  ;  Rustzuk  has  sent  us  many 
guests  during  the  night.  What  a  mixed  tribe  !  The  Turk 
kneels  and  says  his  morning  prayer  ;  his  brow  touches  the 
ship's  deck  ;  close  by  him  sits  a  Jew  in  coat  of  silver  tissue, 
and  purple-colored  turban  ;  his  yellow  slippers  stand  before 
him  ;  he  holds  a  parasol  over  his  head  though  the  sun  does 
not  shine  on  him  ;  he  takes  a  little  pocket  mirror  out,  looks 
at  himself  in  it,  smiles,  and  now  and  then  plucks  the  gray 
hairs  out  of  his  beard  with  a  pair  of  tweezers. 

We  speed  past  Bulgarian  towns  !  What  is  that  called  —*-  it 
is  Verdun  !  When  I  hear  the  nightingale  sing  amongst  the 
wild,  blooming  lilacs,  I  will  remember  its  sisters  on  this  spot ! 
Again  a  town !  it  is  Sistowa,  high  above  it  stand  the  walls 
of  a  citadel.  Turks,  with  their  long  pipes,  stretch  themselves 
on  the  wooden  balconies  of  the  houses,  and  look  with  as  much 
indifference  on  the  flight  of  the  steam-vessel  as  on  the  smoke 
from  their  pipes.  Now  a  town  to  the  right,  a  Wallachian 
town,  with  wretched  clay  cabins  and  a  long,  death-like  quar- 
antine building ;  it  is  Simnitza  !  we  write  its  name,  and  yet 
forget  it ! 

What  is  that,  shining  before  us!  —  what  white  slopes  are 
they  on  the  Bulgarian  side  ?  They  stand  out  more  and  more  ; 
it  is  Danish  !  they  are  the  chalk  cliffs  of  Moen  that  have 
come  to  meet  me  !  I  know  all  their  forms,  I  know  that  sum- 
mer-green high  up  on  the  white  slopes  !  —  yet  they  are  only 


282  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

bushes.  I  see  now  ;  Moen  has  woods  ;  Moen  has  the  clear, 
the  blue-green  sea  under  it,  and  not  these  brown-yellow  waves 
of  the  Danube.  There  lies  a  city  up  there  ;  it  is  Nicopoli, 
Trajan's  city,  Bajazet's  trophy.  We  glide  close  under  the 
white  cliffs  ;  the  captain  points  upward  to  a  row  of  deep  exca- 
vations in  the  slope  ;  they  look  like  large  embrasures  in  the 
walls  of  a  fortress !  They  are  the  graves  of  the  ancients  ! 
Who  were  the  heroes  and  princes  that  went  to  dust  here, 
whilst  the  unchanged  yellow  river  rolled  its  waves  against  the 
base  of  the  cliff?  No  one  knows  !  —  now  the  swallow  builds 
its  nesr  in  the  heroes'  burial  chambers. 

Between  the  white  cliffs  and  the  green  Wallachian  plains  a 
beautiful  rainbow  hangs  arched  high  above  the  river  which 
lifts  its  waves  as  on  a  lake.  How  glowing,  how  splendid ! 
Many  a  rainbow  has  stretched  its  arch  here,  seen  by  pashas 
and  bojars :  but  it  was  lost;  no  painter  or  poet  has  seen  it  1 
Thou  magnificent,  glorious,  airy  picture  on  the  dark  cloud  ! 
would  that  I  were  a  painter ! 

Are  those  summer  clouds  aloft  in  the  horizon  of  Bulgaria  ? 
I  have  often  seen  the  clouds  thus  over  the  green  fields  in 
Denmark.  Are  they  mountains  with  snow  ?  We  see  the  Alps 
thus  from  the  capital  of  Bavaria.  They  are  the  Balkan 
Mountains!  The  setting  sun  gilds  the  white  snow-tops  \\ith 
its  rays  !  Glorious  mountain  land,  thy  greatness  attunes  the 
soul  to  devotion  !  Close  by  me  kneels  the  Turk  ;  he  bends 
his  face  toward  the  ground,  and  mutters  his  evening  prayer. 
The  sun  is  down  !  there  is  peace  in  nature,  peace  in  my  heart ! 
The  evening  is  so  light !  We  sail !  The  night  is  clear !  We 
sail ! 


III. 

A    TURBULENT    PASSAGE. 

IT  was  in  the  middle  of  the  night :  we  were  all  awakened 
by  the  ship's  suddenly  standing  still,  and  loud  piercing  voices 
talking  overhead  ;  the  captain's  was  heard  above  the  rest 
Our  lamp  had  gone  out ;  it  was  quite  dark  in  the  cabin  :  we 
heard  the  plash  of  oars.  Some  one  came  on  board,  and  the 


A    TURBULENT  PASSAGE.  283 

clang  of  a  sabre  was  heard  directly  over  our  heads  !  What  is 
that  ?  was  the  mutual  question.  We  were  at  most  only  ten 
miles 1  from  the  district  where  the  revolt  was  greatest  when  we 
left  Constantinople  ;  had  it  extended  here  to  the  coast  ? 

People  came  down  the  stairs.  There  was  a  clang  of  arms 
on  the  steps,  but  no  one  spoke.  The  first  we  saw  was  the 
captain  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand  ;  he  was  followed  by  a  well 
armed  Tartar  with  a  woolen  sheepskin  cloak  over  his  shoul- 
ders, and  high  miitze  ;  for  the  rest  he  was  half  covered  with 
mud,  and  his  hair  was  dripping  wet.  He  stepped  up  to  Phil- 
ippovich,  and  a  conversation  began  in  Turkish.  We  could 
half  understand  it  by  the  Tartar's  gesticulations  !  He  spoke 
of  an  attack,  combat,  and  death !  He  several  times  seized 
one  of  his  pistols,  or  shook  his  sabre  ;  his  eyes  rolled  in  his 
head. 

It  was  not  before  he  and  the  captain  left  us,  that  we  got  a 
clear  account  of  the  whole  story.  The  Tartar  was  one  of  the 
messengers  who  carried  letters  and  dispatches  from  Widdin 
to  Constantinople.  He  knew  that  all  his  comrades  had  been 
carried  off,  and  kept  imprisoned  in  Nissa  and  Sophia;  and 
had,  therefore,  with  his  escort,  endeavored  to  avoid  those 
places.  In  this  he  had  not  succeeded  ;  his  companions  had 
been  shot,  and  he  himself  had  reached  this  part  of  the  Dan- 
ube, where  he  knew  the  Austrian  steamer  would  pass  at 
night ;  here  he  had  sat,  and  waited  in  the  rushes.  When  we 
came  he  hailed  us,  intending  to  sail  with  us  to  the  coast  of 
Servia,  to  Radejevacz,  and  from  thence  try  a  new  road,  and 
more  fortunate  journey. 

We  all  rose  with  the  sun  ;  we  had  passed  Oreava ;  flat 
shores  stretched  along  both  sides  of  the  Danube.  It  was  un- 
comfortable on  deck  ;  the  Turks  had  spread  out  their  dirty 
carpets  ;  my  Frankish  comrades  talked  about  animal-emigra- 
tion ;  the  passengers  in  the  second  cabin  confirmed  it ;  and 
the  captain  nodded.  I  scarcely  knew  where  I  dare  tread : 
there  was  a  washing  and  rinsing  of  leeches  in  the  forepart  of 
the  vessel.  We  had  taken  several  French  leech  dealers  on 
board  at  Nicopoli ;  they  had  been  to  Bulgaria  for  their  Hying 

1  Ten  miles  Danish,  consequently  between  forty  and  fifty  miles  English  ; 
the  Danish  mile  is  somewhat  more  than  four  English  miles. 


284  J   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

wares,  —  millions  of  leeches  emigrate  annually  to  France 
They  had  to  be  washed  and  taken  care  of,  and  therefore,  as  I 
have  said,  there  was  a  washing  and  rinsing.  The  poor  ani- 
mals were  then  put  in  bags  and  hung  up  on  cords,  so  that  the 
water  might  drip  from  them.  Several  of  them  crawled  away 
down  the  deck  or  up  the  balustrade.  One  of  the  cabin  boys 
limped  about  with  bleeding  feet,  for  a  leech  had  laid  fast  hold 
of  him. 

We  sailed  past  the  Bulgarian  town  Zibru ;  the  horizon 
closed  with  Balkan's  proud  snow-covered  mountains  ;  a  large 
flock  of  storks  marched  about  in  the  green  meadow,  where  the 
uninclosed  cemetery  lay  with  its  white  grave-stones.  A  few 
fishing  nets  were  stretched  out ;  it  was  a  complete,  charming 
landscape ;  but  there  was  no  peace  in  our  vessel. 

The  Danube  was  troubled ;  its  water  rolled  like  waves  on 
a  stormy  lake  ;  the  vessel  rocked  up  and  down ;  the  seasick 
lady's-maid  sat  quite  pale  ;  and  leaning  against  the  captain's 
cabin  she  whispered :  "  It  is  terrible !  it  is  just  as  on  the 
sea  !  "  —  but  it  was  not  like  being  at  sea  —  here  it  was  only 
a  little  rough. 

The  city  of  Lom-Palanka,  with  a  bush-grown  hill  and  green, 
fragrant  gardens  toward  the  river,  arose  right  nobly.  Turks 
—  real  gold-men,  according  to  the  Turkish  phrase,  "  to  speak 
is  silver,  to  be  silent  is  gold  !  "  —  sat  as  immovable  as  statues, 
and  smoked  their  pipes  ;  they  did  not  so  much  as  turn  their 
heads  to  look  after  us. 

The  wind  whistled  through  the  shrouds  of  the  vessel  ;  the 
waves  rose  higher  and  higher,  as  if  they  danced  in  a  storm. 
I  had  never  imagined  that  the  waves  of  a  river  could  dance 
thus.  The  lady's-maid  was  as  seasick  as  it  was  possible  to  be  i 
Father  Marco  sang,  and  assured  her  that  it  was  weather  to 
have  a  christening  in.  He  even  hoisted  a  sail,  which  he  called 
una  fantasia,  as,  according  to  his  opinion  it  looked  like  some- 
thing serviceable,  whereas  it  was  of  little  service. 

Widden,  the  strongest  fortress  in  Bulgaria,  lay  before  us 
with  its  twenty-five  minarets.  The  cannons  peeped  out  of  the 
loop-holes,  and  a  swarm  of  men  stood  by  the  landing-place. 
Turks  lay  around  on  the  wooden  balconies,  and  drank  their 
toffee  ;  soldiers  marched  up,  to  prevent  any  one  coming  fron? 


A    TURBULENT  PASSAGE.  285 

our  ship  to  enter  into  the  town,  and  so  bring  a  contagious  fever 
or  plague  from  that  ever  suspected  Constantinople  !  There  was 
jife  and  motion  amongst  that  many-colored  tribe.  At  length 
we  lay  to  by  the  low  bridge  ;  a  large  flight  of  stairs  was  set 
up,  and  planks  laid  from  it  to  the  ship,  so  that  we  could  now 
descend.  Close  by  stood  a  little  wooden  house,  in  which  was 
a  drawer  with  fire  and  incense.  Every  one  of  us  that  wished 
to  walk  about  in  the  town  must  first  go  into  this  house  and  be 
smoked  through,  so  that  the  infectious  matter  in  our  clothes 
and  bodies  might  be  driven  out.  It  was  somewhat  difficult  to 
hold  one's  balance  on  the  loose  boards  from  the  ship.  The 
steps  were  also  pretty  steep  ;  but  the  good-natured  Turks  took 
us  by  the  hand  and  helped  us  down.  They  then  let  go  di- 
rectly, and  we  were  smoked  that  we  might  not  infect  them. 
Philippovich,  who  they  already  knew  was  on  board,  and  who 
was  to  have  an  audience  with  the  Pasha,  was  not  smoked  at 
all,  for  it  would  have  detained  him.  A  fine  saddled  horse 
awaited  him ;  he  mounted  it,  and  darted  off  through  the  street 
to  Hussein  Pasha's  palace,  to  speak  about  the  measures  that 
were  to  be  taken  respecting  the  post-couriers  who  had  been 
taken  prisoners,  and  about  the  further  transmission  of  letters 
and  dispatches. 

Hussein  is  Pasha  of  three  horse-tails,  and  known  by  his  en- 
ergy in  the  battle  against  the  Janizaries  in  1826,  which  ended 
in  their  total  extinction.  In  1828,  he  long  withstood  Diebitsch 
at  Schumla  ;  but  in  1832,  he  was  less  successful  against  Ibra- 
him Pasha  '  in  Syria,  after  which  he  got  the  Pashalic  of  Wid- 
din. 

We  landed,  and  were  smoked ;  but  all  the  goods,  even 
woolen  bags,  entirely  escaped  this  fumigation.  When  this  was 
over  we  wandered  about  the  town,  which  after  the  rain  we  had 
had  was  most  horribly  muddy. 

The  nearest  streets  to  the  landing  place  were  as  one  com- 
plete morass.  In  some  places  we  saw  a  sentinal,  who  had 
posted  himself  on  a  stone  standing  out  of  the  mud.  I  say 
posted,  but  it  was  in  a  peculiar  position.  Properly  speaking, 

1  In  the  Revue  Britannique,  1838,  is  a  description  of  the  Pasha's  se- 
raglio. But  we  heard  here  that  it  is  entirely  fabulous  ;  and,  as  far  as  re- 
gards the  exterior,  we  must  remark  the  same  thing. 


286  A   POETS  BAZAAR. 

he  had  squatted  down  ;  his  naked  knee  stuck  through  a  gash 
in  his  trousers.  He  held  his  musket  in  this  squatting  position, 
so  that  we  could  not  refrain  from  laughing  at  him. 

In  Wicldin  we  all  visited,  for  the  last  time  in  Turkey,  a  sort 
of  workmen  whose  abilities  have  reached  a  very  high  point  in 
that  country,  —  I  mean  the  barbers  :  they  are  really  marvel- 
ous fellows.  It  is  true,  they  almost  cover  one's  whole  face 
with  soap,  and  play  with  one's  head  as  if  it  were  a  doll's,  but 
they  have  a  dexterity  and  lightness  almost  incredible.  One 
fancies  it  is  a  feather  gliding  over  the  whole  face  ;  but  it  is  the 
keen  razor.  They  shave  three  times  in  succession,  and  then 
perfume  the  whole  face.  Besides,  one  need  not  now  as  a  few 
years  ago,  fear  that  they  will  shave  all  the  hair  of  one's  head 
off,  for  they  now  know  that  the  Franks  prefer  to  save  theirs ; 
they  even  begin  to  let  their  own  grow. 

In  the  evening  Hussein  Pasha  sent  us  a  large  bundle  of  the 
very  latest  German  newspapers.  Hussein  takes  the  "  Allge- 
meine  Zeitung,  "  *  so  we  begun  to  know  how  matters  stood  in 
the  country  we  had  passed  through.  A  certain  Mladen,  and 
an  ecclesiastic  named  Lefzkoweza,  were  at  the  head  of  these 
movements.  It  was  a  real  spiritual  feast  to  get  these  journals 
—  the  very  best  dish  that  Hussein  could  have  sent  us. 

We  made  ourselves  quite  comfortable.  The  vessel  lay  still ; 
it  had  become  quite  a  dead  calm  —  somewhat  sultry,  it  is 
true !  How  well  should  we  not  sleep  this  night ! 

Again  disturbance !  We  were  awakened  by  a  light,  as  if 
everything  were  in  a  flame !  It  spread  as  if  the  fortress  had 
fired  off  its  two  hundred  and  eighty  cannons.  It  was  a  Bulga- 
rian thunder-storm  ;  old  Zeus,  or  Thor,  whichever  of  them  yet 
reigns  in  the  clouds,  rolled  away  above  us.  One  crash  of 
thunder  came  with  a  deafening  peal  after  the  other.  The 
waves  raged,  roared,  and  rattled  in  one's  ears,  as  the  river 
Danube  rolled  them  before  our  eyes.  The  whole  neighbor- 
hood every  moment  revealed  itself  as  in  the  clear  light  of  day. 
We  were  all  awake,  and  on  deck ;  the  Turks  alone  slept 

1  We  found  this  paper  in  Athens  and  Constantinople  as  well  as  here. 
My  fellow-travellers  had  seen  it  in  Jerusalem  and  Babylon.  It  is  in 
ti  uth  a  paper  that  has  become  Allgemein* 


SERVIA'S  DRYADS.  287 

quietly,  wrapped  up  in  their  woolen  mantles,  with  their  faces 
covered. 

We  had  left  Widdin,  and  lay  out  before  the  little  hamlet 
Florentin.  Miserable  clay  hovels  stood  close  by  the  shore ; 
the  ruins  of  a  Turkish  bathing-house  extended  into  the  Dan- 
ube, which  showed  us  its  first  rocks  at  this  place.1  We  saw 
velvet-green  meadows,  with  groups  of  horned  cattle  and  shy 
horses.  This  was  a  picture  that  must  not  be  seen  by  day. 
No,  but  by  the  cloud-cleaving  lightning  —  it  is  a  picture 
painted  on  the  glossy  light !  The  white  minaret,  the  bending 
poplar,  the  frightened  and  flying  horses,  the  swelling  river. 
Words  cannot  give  to  the  description  what  so  animated  the 
reality. 


IV. 

SERVIA'S  DRYADS. 

A  LITTLE  river  which  falls  into  the  Danube  forms  the 
boundary  between  Bulgaria  and  Servia.  The  whole  of  this 
land  appears  to  be  an  immense  oak  forest.  Yes,  here  is  the 
great  region  of  the  Dryads,  with  mighty  mementoes,  and  a 
people's  deep  songs.  The  green  tree  is  hallowed  in  the  eyes 
of  the  people.  Whoever  hews  down  a  tree,  say  they,  takes  a 
life.  The  green  tree  seems  of  far  greater  importance  to  the 
man  than  woman  is  to  him  ;  she  stands  in  her  own  house, 
humble  and  serving ;  she  waits  on  her  husband  and  his  guests 
with  folded  arms,  at  the  lower  end  of  the  table,  ready  to  fulfill 
their  wishes.  So  is  it  in  the  peasant's  hovel,  and  so  is  it  in 
the  prince's  palace. 

The  different  guard-houses  lying  so  close  that  the  soldiers 
can  cry  out  to  each  other,  and  be  heard,  showed  themselves 
directly  on  the  boundaries. 

On  the  flat  grass  plain  of  Wallachia,  with  its  clayey  slope 
toward  the  Danube,  lay  a  miserable  clay  hovel  without  win- 
dows ;  it  had  a  roof  and  chimney  of  reeds,  but  high  and 

1  A  Roman  ruin  stood  on  one  of  these  rocks  in  1839 ;  now  it  has  almost 
disappeared.  The  Pasha  has  caused  the  stones  to  be  used  in  the  con- 
struction of  new  buildings. 


288  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

roomy,  as  if  it  were  a  little  tower  on  the  roof ;  peasants  ir 
long  skin  frocks  formed  the  group  here.  On  the  Bulgarian 
side,  where  the  scenery  had  about  the  same  character  as  in 
Wallachia,  stood  a  black  house  of  stone,  like  our  potato  cel- 
lars. A  stout  Turk,  in  a  jacket,  with  a  carriage  of  body  like  a 
pug-dog  standing  on  its  hind  legs,  was  the  frontier  sentinel. 
In  Servia,  on  the  contrary,  were  wood-covered  mountains  ; 
every  tree  worthy  of  inclosing  a  Dryad.  The  guard-house 
was  a  pleasant  white  house  with  a  red  roof;  everything  near 
it  looked  lively  and  green.  The  soldier  seemed  half  warrior 
and  half  herdsman. 

"  Farewell,  Bulgaria's  land  1 "  we  cried ;  and  glided  on 
under  the  Servian  forests. 

The  first  town  here,  little  as  it  was,  with  its  red  roofs,  and 
clean  exterior,  carried  us  at  once  into  the  midst  of  Germany. 
Nine  storks  were  taking  their  promenade  in  the  green  ver- 
dure ;  Africa's  sunny  spirits  had,  perhaps,  lately  ridden  on 
them  into  the  town. 

There  are  songs  on  the  people's  lips,  as  numerous  as  the 
leaves  in  these  woods  ;  and  as  the  fertile  green 'branches  re- 
mind the  Dane  of  his  green  islands,  so  these  songs  remind 
him  of  his  land's  ballads.  When  the  Servian  sings  about 
Stojan  who  could  not  win  the  proud  sister  of  Iwan,  we  think 
that  we  hear  one  of  our  Scandinavian  ballads ;  we  think  of  Sir 
Peder  who  cast  the  runes.  The  Servian  Stojan  wrote  four 
love  letters,  threw  one  into  the  flames,  and  said  :  "  Thou  shall 
not  burn,  but  Iwan's  sister,  her  reason  shall  burn ! "  The 
second  he  threw  into  the  water :  "  Thou  shall  not  wash  away 
ihe  letter,  but  wash  away  her  reason  !  "  The  third  he  gave  to 
the  wind  :  "  Bear  not  this  on  thy  wings,  but  fly  away  with  her 
reason !  "  The  fourth  he  laid  under  his  head,  at  night,  say- 
ing: "Not  thou  shall  resl  here,  bul  Iwan's  sisler !  "  And 
when  nighl  came  ihere  was  a  knocking  al  his  door,  and  she 
stood  there  outside,  and  cried  :  "  Open,  for  Heaven's  sake  ! 
The  flames  devour  me,  the  water  carries  me  away  with  it ! 
Have  pity,  open  thy  door!  The  storm  bears  me  away!" 
And  he  opened  the  door  to  Iwan's  proud  sister.  The  Servian 
loves  his  trees  as  the  Swiss  loves  his  mountains  —  as  the  Dane 
loves  the  sea.  The  deputalions  of  the  towns  assemble  annu- 


SERVIANS  DRYADS.  289 

ally  with  Prince  Milosch  under  the  canopy  of  the  trees ;  the 
trees  arch  themselves  into  a  hall  of  justice !  The  bride  and 
bridegroom  dance  under  the  tree.  The  tree  stands  in  the 
battle  like  a  giant,  and  combats  against  Servia's  enemies. 
The  green,  balmy  trees  arch  themselves  over  the  playing  chil- 
dren. The  green,  balmy  tree  is  the  old  man's  monument  in 
death.  This  woody  land  is  life's  green  branch  on  the  Osman's 
tree,  but  the  branch  hangs  only  by  slender  tendrils  fast  to  the 
almost  decayed  tree-  The  branch  has  struck  root  and  will 
grow  boldly,  like  one  of  the  first  royal  trees  of  Europe,  if  it  be 
allowed  to  stand.  This  the  Servian  Dryads  sang  as  we  sailed 
past,  and  when  we  reposed  on  the  grassy  carpet  under  the 
screen  of  their  fragrant  fluttering  hair. 

Above  Radejevacz,  where  the  Tartar  Hasan  left  us,  accom- 
panied by  the  best  wishes  that  he  might  reach  Constantinople 
alive  and  happily,  begins  the  island  of  Ostrava  with  magnifi- 
cent woody  scenery.  It  is  twelve  Italian  miles  long.1  The 
first  large  extent  of  wood  we  had  yet  seen  on  the  Wallachian 
side  was  spread  before  us  here.  Nay,  there  even  appeared 
some  cultivated  vineyards.  It  was  as  if  the  woody  richness 
and  culture  of  Servia  cast  a  lustre,  not  only  over  the  Danube 
islands,  but  even  to  the  Wallachian  coast.  The  birds  sang 
as  I  have  only  heard  them  sing  in  the  Danish  beech  woods. 
We  sailed  through  a  small  arm  of  the  Danube  ;  it  was  as  if 
we  glided  through  a  delightful  wood  :  the  sunlight  glanced 
between  the  green  branches,  and  trembled  on  the  rushing 
stream.  A  young  Servian  girl  with  red  ribbons  on  her  white, 
open  jacket,  and  shining  coins  about  her  red  cap,  stood  with 
her  pitcher  by  the  stream.  She  was  a  living  vignette  to  the 
Servian  song  :  "  The  young  girl  went  to  fetch  water ;  she  bent 
down  toward  it,  and  then  said  these  words  to  herself:  Poor 
child  !  O,  how  beautiful  thou  art !  With  a  wreath  around  thy 
brow,  thou  wouldst  look  still  more  beautiful,  and  dare  to  love 
the  herdsman,  —  the  young  herdsman  who  goes  before  his 
irove,  like  the  moon  before  the  starry  host !  " 

With  a  martial  people,  where  the  woman  is  not  an  amazon, 
but  simply  woman,  she  must  be  silent  and  humble  ;  the  sub- 
ordinate situation  of  the  Servian  women  does  not  permit  them 
1  About  the  saint  number  of  English  miles. 
19 


290  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

to  speak  the  heart's  deepest  voice.     It  reveals  itself  character- 
istically in  all  their  love-songs. 

"  Yesterday  when  we  were  in  quarters,  we  had  an  excellent 
supper,  and  we  saw  a  girl,  so  young  and  beautiful ;  she  wore, 
tulips  in  her  hair.  I  gave  my  noble  steed  to  her,  and  she 
said  to  it :  '  Tell  me,  thou  brown  one,  is  thy  master  married  ? ' 
And  the  horse  answered  with  a  neigh :  '  No,  pretty  girl,  he  is 
not  married  ;  but  in  the  harvest  he  thinks  of  leading  thee  to 
his  home  ! '  And  the  glad  girl  said  to  the  brown  steed  :  '  If 
I  knew  that  it  was  truth,  I  would  immediately  melt  my 
buckles  and  mount  thy  halter  with  them ;  I  would  melt  my 
necklace  to  gild  thy  pure  silver  ! ' ' 

Prince  Milosch  has,  during  the  last  few  years,  collected  a 
rich  treasure  of  these  songs  of  the  country,  —  the  lives  of 
single  individuals,  and  the  whole  people's  heroic  deeds.  In 
the  Servian's  house,  where  there  often  live  several  married 
couples,  but  under  one  chief  chosen  by  themselves,  and  who 
manages  their  fortune  and  house  affairs,  the  merry  music  of 
the  violin  and  bagpipe  sounds  in  the  evening.  In  every 
house  there  is  to  be  found  one  who  can  play  and  accompany 
their  heroic  songs  with  the  instrument ;  in  this  manner  the 
children  learn  their  history ;  in  this  manner  the  elders  are 
strengthened  in  their  love  for  their  native  land.  They  then 
remember  their  royal  time,  —  Belgrade's  founder,  Stephen 
Dussan,  Corbelitza,  and  John  Hunyades. 

The  evening  was  still  and  mild.  The  river  Danube  runs 
here  in  the  same  latitude  as  the  Arno;  the  stars  glittered, 
and  Servia's  forest  stood  high  in  the  transparent  air :  the 
night  was  so  clear  that  we  could  sail  on  with  confidence.  A 
great  distance  was  left  behind  when  I  came  on  deck  next 
morning :  we  had  just  before  passed  the  Turkish  fortress 
Fet- Islam,  on  the  Servian  side  ;  the  roof  of  the  great  tower 
had  quite  fallen  down  ;  the  laths  only  were  to  be  seen.  It 
was  a  miserable  fortress  to  look  at ;  a  part  of  the  garrison  sat 
in  the  holes  of  the  wall,  smoked  tobacco,  and  stared  after  us. 
At  eight  o'clock  we  were  at  Gladova.  The  passengers  and 
goods  were  reshipped  in  a  large,  handsomely  painted  boat 
with  a  wooden  roof.  Here  begins  the  so-called  "  Iron  Gate,' 
which  by  most  travellers  is  described  as  a  part  of  the  Danube 


SERVIA'S  DRYADS.  29 1 

almost  impossible  to  navigate  ;  there  are  strong  rapids.  Here 
are  mighty  whirlpools  that  have  swallowed  up  boats,  and 
broken  vessels  in  pieces ;  round  about  in  the  foaming  stream 
are  to  be  seen  black  rocks  stretching  their  crushing  fingers 
into  the  air ;  but  we  can,  however,  pass  through  the  "  Iron 
Gate."  I  found  the  navigation  between  Orsova  and  Drencova 
far  more  dangerous. 

Our  captain  placed  himself  at  the  bow  of  the  boat,  which 
was  dragged  up  against  the  stream  by  fifty  or  more  Servians 
with  a  rope  and  iron  chain,  they  walking  on  a  pathway  and 
hauling  it  along.  A  number  of  river  vessels  lay  under  the 
shore ;  the  poor  Servians  had  to  spring  like  gazelles  from  ship 
to  ship,  haul  and  haul,  then  jump  into  their  light  boats,  and 
with  the  rope  around  their  waists,  row  themselves  and  us  for- 
ward. 

We  kept  close  in  to  the  Servian  coast,  for  ,in  the  middle  of 
the  current  there  were  several  falls ;  the  water  leapt  against 
the  bow  of  the  boat.  The  coast  in  a  few  places  consisted  of 
low  but  perpendicular  rocks,  in  which  ropes  were  fixed  like  a 
sort  of  balustrade,  by  which  our  Servians  in  the  small  boats 
held  fast  and  thus  worked  against  the  stream ;  they  then 
sprang  again  on  land,  and  our  boat  went  like  a  steamer 
against  the  rapid  river.  It  did  not  look  at  all  dangerous,  but 
it  was  exciting.  Old  trees  hung  over  the  rocks  ;  the  nightin- 
gales sang,  and  our  large  flag  with  the  double  eagle  fluttered 
in  the  wind.  The  most  dangerous  part  of  the  passage 
through  the  u  Iron  Gate,"  begins  a  little  way  above  the  small 
town  of  Gladova.  All  the  passengers  went  ashore,  and  only 
the  captain  and  two  sailors  remained  behind.  It  was  not  the 
danger  that  haunted  us,  but  it  was  the  greenwood  that  in- 
vited us  ;  here  it  was  fresh,  balmy,  and  beautiful.  Servian 
soldiers,  who  had  accompanied  us  from  Gladova,  took  care 
that  we  should  not  come  in  contact  with  the  inhabitants  of  the 
country. 

The  pleasure  of  treading  on  land  after  several  days  —  the 
short  visit  in  Widdin  excepted  —  was  a  luxury,  doubly  great 
here  in  the  midst  of  a  fragrant  wood  on  a  grassy  carpet 
swarming  with  flowers.  We  all  plucked  a  bouquet.  High 
cliffs  covered  with  bushes  rose  behind  the  trees,  Ihe  golden 


A   POET'S  BAZA  AX. 

laburnums  speckled  the  green  woods.  We  came  to  a  large 
tree,  and  they  told  us  that  the  former  Pasha  of  Orsova  had 
taken  his  breakfast  there  daily,  and  then,  not  unfrequently, 
had  ordered  some  Christians  to  be  hung  up  on  these  very 
branches.  Not  far  from  thence  stood  a  Cross  ;  it  was  the  first 
cross  in  the  open  field  that  I  had  seen  since  I  left  Italy ;  it 
greeted  me  like  a  dear  holy  sign  outside  the  Crescent's  land  ; 
this  green,  these  flowers,  and  the  song  of  birds  !  O  !  it  was  a 
festive  day  in  nature !  We  wandered  amongst  Servia's  Dryads  : 
our  guard  had  enough  to  do  to  keep  our  party  together  ;  one 
would  have  a  branch  with  the  yellow  laburnum,  another  must 
gather  flowers,  and  a  third  drink  at  the  well ;  and  we  durst 
not  leave  each  other.  We  were  obliged  to  keep  pace  with  the 
boat,  which,  sure  enough,  got  but  slowly  forward  ;  it  rocked 
a  little,  and  was  now  and  then  washed  by  a  rough  wave 
which  it  cut  through.  Herdsmen  and  women  whom  we  met, 
fled  from  us,  and  regarded  us  at  a  respectable  distance. 

We  passed  a  sulphur  spring ;  a  poor  path  led  up  to  it ;  per- 
haps in  a  few  years  a  splendid  watering-place  will  stand  here, 
and  the  guests  promenade  under  these  leafy  trees.  Our  brave 
captain  sat  by  the  rudder ;  the  boat  rocked  like  a  chip  over 
surge  and  eddy,  and  the  old  man  nodded  to  us  when  the 
water  sprang  into  the  air.  The  wind  whistled  in  the  trees, 
and  the  Dryads  sang  about  an  equally  brave  captain  on  a 
still  more  dangerous  river,  —  that  of  politics :  the  Dryads  sang 
about  the  land's  prince,  Milosch,  the  true  Servian.  Tree 
stands  beside  tree  in  this  country  as  in  the  forests  of  Amer- 
ica; Dryad  relates  to  Dryad  what  passes  in  the  inclosed 
valley,  and  in  the  dark  thicket.  It  sounds  in  our  times  like  a 
legend,  that  on  the  verge  of  the  plains  of  Hungary,  close  by 
the  swelling  Danube,  there  lives  a  martial  and  yet  a  patri- 
archal people  whose  prince  watched  his  father's  herds  when  a 
boy,  and  as  a  lad  journeyed  through  the  country  as  a  commer- 
cial traveller.  When  black  George  broke  the  Turk's  chains, 
he  fought  with  the  people  for  their  freedom  ;  he  was  the  brav- 
est warrior,  and  the  most  fortunate  conqueror.  Black  George 
fled  as  a  fugitive  with  the  vanquished  ;  the  young  warrior  re- 
tired with  his  heroes  deeper  into  the  dark  rocks.  The  rockj 
cavern  was  then  Milosch's  royal  castle ;  there  his  princess 


THE  PASHA    OF  ORSOVA.  293 

waited  for  him  ;  there  she  herself  roasted  the  lamb  that  was 
to  be  placed  before  him  and  his  friends.  He  came,  but  as 
a  fugitive  ;  and  daring  as  became  a  regent's  spouse,  as  the 
mother  of  a  hero's  child,  she  stopped  him,  and  asked  if  they 
must  perish,  if  their  father-land  must  fall,  and  bade  him  turn 
back  —  and  he  turned  to  conquer.  Europe's  princes  have  ac- 
knowledged Milosch  as  prince.1  The  Turkish  soldiers  and 
pashas  in  the  fortresses  of  Servia  are  but  a  shadow  of  power, 
—  a  shadow  wherein  Servia's  children  seek  strength.  In  Mi- 
losch's  royal  castle  it  is  the  Princess  and  her  daughters  who 
wait  on  the  Prince  and  his  guests  ;  they  live  in  the  Prince's 
castle  as  in  the  peasant's  cot ;  and  the  bagpipe  and  glitter- 
ing weapon  are  the  first  and  most  prominent  objects  we  meet 
there. 


V. 

THE   PASHA  OF   ORSOVA. 

BEFORE  us  lay  the  Turkish  fortress  of  Orsova,  the  seat  of  a 
pasha.  The  most  dangerous  part  of  the  "  Iron  Gate  "  was 
passed ;  we  approached  the  first  goal  of  our  voyage  —  the 
quarantine.  We  again  entered  the  boat ;  the  breakfast  table 
was  laid,  a  leave-taking  toast  was  drunk  to  the  Crescent  and 
the  veiled  women. 

The  Wallachian  coast  rose,  like  the  Servian,  with  wood- 
grown  rocks ;  on  a  projecting  tongue  of  land  to  the  right  lies 
New  Orsova  with  red  painted  houses,  white  minarets,  and 
green  gardens.  The  largest  building,  out  toward  the  stream, 
they  told  us  was  the  Pasha's  seraglio  ;  the  beautiful  women 
behind  the  well-trellised  windows  regarded  our  gayly  painted 
boat,  and  perhaps  fixed  their  glass  on  us,  —  they  certainly 
had  one  ;  they  saw  what  strangers  came  who  would  soon  be 
inclosed  like  themselves,  but  in  the  quarantine,  and  solitary 
without  love's  communion.  They  saw  us  under  the  fortress 
which  rises  out  of  the  Danube  on  the  Servian  side  ;  they 

1  Milosch  was  obliged  to  resign  on  the  first  of  June,  1839.  The  eldest 
•on,  Milan,  obtained  the  government  on  the  eighth  of  July,  1839  ;  now  the 
younger  son,  Michael  Milosch,  reigns. 


294  A  POET'S  BAZAAR. 

saw  their  master,  the  Pasha  of  Orsova,  with  soldiers  out- 
side the  walls,  marching  down  toward  our  boat,  which  now 
lay  still. 

The  Pasha,  a  powerful  man  about  forty  years  of  age,  with 
blue  military  surtout,  large  gold  epaulets  and  fez,  greeted  us, 
and  conversed  long  with  Philippovich. 

The  fortress,  which  appears  ruinous,  greeted  us  with  five 
cannon-shots  as  we  glided  past  We  now  saw  the  Austrian 
city,  Old  Orsova,  and  the  hamlet  of  Xupaneck,  where  the  quar- 
antine is  held ;  we  were  obliged  to  go  quite  past  Orsova,  the 
current  being  so  strong,  and  it  was  at  a  great  distance  up  be- 
fore they  could  cross  the  stream  ;  this,  however,  was  but  the 
loss  of  a  few  minutes. 

The  landing  place  was  inclosed  with  palisades,  which 
creaked  with  the  numbers  of  spectators  that  thronged  on  it,  to 
look  at  us  pestilential  strangers. 

Large  wagons  yoked  with  oxen  took  our  baggage,  and  were 
set  in  motion ;  the  passengers  followed  slowly  after,  sur- 
rounded by  soldiers  and  quarantine  officers,  each  with  a  long 
white  stick  to  keep  us  at  three  paces'  distance  from  them  ;  we 
cast  a  final  look  toward  the  stream  that  had  borne  us.  The 
fortress  lay  in  shade,  but  the  trees,  roofs,  minarets  in  New 
Orsova  shone  in  the  most  beautiful  sunlight.  A  boat  crossed 
the  stream  toward  the  Pasha's  seraglio ;  it  was  the  Pasha 
who  went  to  visit  his  wives.  We  went  to  our  fenced  prison, 
he  to  flowery  terraces.  The  lot  of  man  is  different  in  this 
world  —  that  is  the  moral  of  the  story. 


VI. 

THE   QUARANTINE. 

To  lie  in  quarantine  is  to  exercise  one's  self  in  the  polypus 
department  Properly  speaking,  we  all  lie  in  quarantine  in 
this  world,  until  we  get  permission  to  make  the  great  voyage 
to  heaven.  Poets  are  born  poets,  they  say  ;  but  there  are 
certainly  persons  born  to  lie  in  quarantine.  I  have  known 
travellers  who  lie  a-bed  until  noon,  and  before  they  have 


THE  QUARANTINE.  295 

dressed,  dawdled,  and  fiddle-faddled  about,  it  is  afternoon  ) 
then  they  must  write  letters,  or  note  down  what  they  have  seen 
ihat  same  hour  the  day  before,  when  they  lounged  through  the 
galleries  ;  then  they  employ  a  year  to  see  what  others  see  bettei 
in  a  month  ;  but  that  is  called  being  well-informed,  not  doing 
things  by  halves,  making  one's  self  acquainted  with  every- 
thing, etc.,  etc.  I  call  these  folks  quarantine  persons.  Piick- 
ler  Muskau  relates  of  himself,  that  whilst  he  was  in  quarantine 
in  Malta,  he  begged  that  he  might  remain  there  a  day  longer 
to  finish  his  work.  I  am  of  quite  a  different  nature  ;  when 
travelling,  I  must  bestir  myself  from  morning  till  evening ;  I 
must  see  and  see  again.  I  cannot  do  anything  else  than  pack 
whole  towns,  tribes,  mountains,  and  seas  into  my  mind  ;  always 
taking  in,  always  stowing  away ;  there  is  not  time  to  write  a  sin- 
gle song.  I  am  not  even  disposed  to  do  so  ;  but  it  will  come, 
I  well  know.  It  seethes  and  ferments  in  me,  and  when  I  am 
once  in  the  good  city  of  Copenhagen,  and  get  a  bodily  and 
spiritual  cold  fomentation,  the  flowers  will  shoot  forth. 

Our  entry  into  quarantine  was  a  subject  for  a  painter. 
Round  about  were  wood-grown  mountains  ;  and  before,  a  flat, 
green  plain,  where  the  artist  could  place  the  large  wagons 
filled  with  our  baggage,  drawn  by  white  oxen  and  driven  by 
Wallachian  peasants  in  white  jackets,  and  colossal  hats  hang- 
ing down  over  their  shoulders.  And  then  the  mixed  company 
of  Turks,  Greeks,  and  Franks  :  Pater  Adam  in  his  black  dress, 
with  a  hat  like  a  large  shield,  was  not  the  least  picturesque 
figure  in  the  group. 

Soldiers  accompanied  us  for  safe  conduct.  Our  entrance 
was  the  merriest  thing  imaginable  :  we  saw  cannon,  naked 
walls,  large  padlocks,  rattling  keys,  quarantine  officers,  who 
stepped  respectfully  aside,  that  they  might  not  come  in  contact 
with  us.  The  road,  or  so  called  promenade  in  between  the 
high  walls,  was  so  blank  that  it  excited  a  momentary  sense  of 
novelty.  It  is  true,  there  were  a  few  rose  hedges,  but  the 
roses  themselves  as  yet  lay  in  quarantine  in  the  green  bud  : 
every  leaf  reminded  us  of  our  quarantine  flag.  I  will  not 
complain  of  the  lodging,  buc  only  describe  it ;  nor  will  I  wail 
over  the  board,  notwithstanding  sour  cabbage  and  Danube 
water,  with  a  plentiful  supply  of  fat  pork  to  it,  such  as  we 
get  here,  are  not  to  my  taste. 


296  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

The  whole  building  is  a  sort  of  box  within  box  :  the  inner- 
most represents  a  sort  of  square  garden,  the  most  attractive 
object  in  which  is  a  little  summer-house  of  rough  laths  with- 
out paint,  which  the  green  vines  have  not  sufficient  courage  to 
cling  fast  to  ;  four  ranges  of  building,  in  which  every  window 
is  double  grated,  surround  this  paradise,  which  one  may  ven- 
ture to  see,  but  not  touch !  Round  about  these  ranges  of 
building  there  is  a  large  wall ;  thus  every  little  chamber  within 
has  a  little  yard ;  the  wall  has  another  wall  around  it,  and  the 
space  between  is  the  promenade  !  It  is  much  more  pleasing 
to  read  about  than  to  experience  it.  The  Englishman  (Mr. 
Ainsworth)  and  I  took  up  our  quarters  together  in  two  small 
rooms.  A  table,  a  chair,  and  a  wooden  pallet,  were  the  furni- 
ture assigned  to  each ;  the  walls  were  newly  whitewashed. 
The  sun  shone  so  delightfully  on  the  walls,  that  we  were 
almost  blinded  with  its  brightness.  For  guardian  we  had  an 
old  fellow,  Johan,  who  had  been  in  the  battle  of  Leipsic,  and 
had  been  wounded  there  ;  he  slept  every  night  in  the  front 
room  on  our  table. 

The  first  day  in  quarantine  goes  on  excellently  well :  we 
get  a  good  rest  after  travelling  ;  the  second,  third,  and  fourth 
day,  we  write  letters  ;  the  fifth  and  sixth  we  become  accus- 
tomed to  the  place,  and  read  a  good  book,  if  we  have  one ; 
but  the  seventh  day  we  are  dis-accustomed  again,  and  find  that 
the  seventh  day,  but  not  the  whole  seven  days,  ought  to  be  a 
day  of  rest.  I  began  to  find  it  desperate.  Two  balmy  linden- 
trees  stood  in  our  yard.  I  threw  my  arms  around  them  so 
often,  that  at  last  I  bethought  me  of  climbing  one.  I  did  so, 
sat  on  a  bough,  and  soon  ascended  to  the  next.  From  thence 
I  could  look  over  the  walls,  and  see  an  entire  side  of  a  moun- 
tain, with  wood  and  arable  land,  and  between  both  was  a  little 
cottage :  it  looked  like  a  little  paradise  —  for  there  people 
were  free. 

I  could,  from  my  green  balcony,  look  down  into  a  row  of 
neighboring  yards.  Philippovich  had  planted  a  Turkish  horse- 
tail before  his  door  ;  the  brass  button  on  it  glittered  in  the 
sun  ;  the  long  white  and  red  horse-hair  fluttered  about  the 
variegated  staff.  Our  leech-merchants  washed  and  rinsed  the 
black  leeches  which  they  had  in  bags  and  sacks.  Bulgarian 


THE  QUARANTINE.  297 

women  lay  in  o  rcles  on  their  carpets,  surrounded  by  children, 
and  held  large  yellow  umbrellas  over  themselves,  to  shade 
them  from  the  sun.  They  certainly  told  little  stories,  for  the 
children  laughed,  and  the  swallows  flew  about  outside,  and 
twittered  contemptuously,  —  for  the  swallows  here  only  trouble 
themselves  with  every- day  stories. 

On  the  first  days  of  our  quarantine  we  had  music,  and  fine 
music ;  two  young  Wallachian  artists,  a  flute-player,  and  one 
who  played  a  glass  harmonicon,  gave  a  concert  in  their  little 
prison-house :  it  sounded  over  the  whole  garden.  Fellow- 
prisoners  peeped  out  of  all  the  windows,  and  at  last  they  ap- 
plauded, for  it  was  artistically  fine.  The  flute-player  breathed 
feeling  and  taste ;  the  tones  refreshed  us.  One  evening,  how- 
ever, he  played  very  merrily,  "  Enjoy  life  !  "  and  it  sounded 
within  these  walls  like  mockery.  But  he  might  well  play  it, 
for  he  was  going  out  next  day,  and  we  had  still  seven  days  to 
hold  out  here. 

But  we  could  make  promenades  round  the  buildings,  be- 
tween the  high,  white  walls ;  we  could  peep  between  the 
trellises  into  every  little  yard  —  read  on  every  little  black 
slate,  written  with  chalk,  the  day  and  hour  that  the  new  comer 
was  placed  there,  the  day  and  hour  persons  were  to  go  out,  and 
how  many  there  were  in !  It  was  a  lecture  for  fancy  and  the 
heart.  Who  was  the  stranger  ?  From  whence  came  he  ? 
Where  was  he  going  ?  Or  perhaps  it  was  a  she  !  Here  was 
occasion  to  feel  our  common  suffering  !  But  I  durst  not  quite 
give  myself  up  to  fancy  and  the  heart,  on  this  promenade.  I 
was  obliged  to  keep  near  my  keeper,  and  be  prudent,  if  I 
would  not  be  exposed  to  a  fresh  term  of  quarantine.  Some- 
times we  met  those  who  had  come  in  afterward  ;  and  then  we 
had  to  stand  close  to  the  wall,  so  as  not  to  come  in  contact 
with  them.  We  had  to  look  about  us,  and  see  that  the  wind 
did  not  bring  a  little  feather  over  the  wall,  that  might  fall  on 
our  shoulders  ;  see  that  we  did  not  tread  on  a  thread  that  any 
one  had  lost,  for  in  that  case  the  quarantine  was  lengthened. 

I  went  this  tour  only,  that  my  feet  might  not  lose  their 
habit  of  walking.  No  one  walked  here  for  his  pleasure  !  It 
was  more  than  alarming  ;  it  was  almost  terrible  to  meet  a 
load  of  goods  here  ;  if  we  came  in  contact  with  it,  then  began 


298  A   POET'S  BAZAAR, 

forty  days'  quarantine  anew.  There  was  such  a  heat  between 
these  walls,  and  in  our  little  yard,  that  we  were  almost  roasted. 
In  the  day  I  dreamt  that  I  was  within  the  leaden  chambers  of 
Venice,  and  at  night,  that  I  was  in  full  life  in  hell.  At  that 
time,  I  knew  by  letters  that  Heiberg  in  his  new  satire  *  had 
spoken  of  the  performance  of  two  of  my  greater  dramatic 
works.  It  had  not  occurred  to  me,  as  long  as  I  was  in  the 
free,  open  face  of  nature  ;  but  here,  as  I  have  said,  in  this 
hell,  I  dreamt  that  I  was  just  shut  down  in  that  of  Heiberg's  ; 
and  there,  just  as  he  has  related,  they  only  performed  my  two 
pieces,  and  that  was  very  agreeable  to  me ;  nay,  as  a  Chris- 
tian, particularly  pleasant  to  learn,  as  he  has  also  told  us, 
that  the  condemned,  after  having  seen  my  pieces,  could  lie 
down  with  a  good  conscience.  Even  there,  at  least,  I  had 
effected  some  good  by  my  works.  I  heard,  however,  down 
there,  that,  beside  my  two  pieces  in  one  evening,  they  had 
also  determined  to  give  Heiberg's  "  Fata  Morgana,"  as  a  con- 
cluding piece ;  but  the  lost  spirits  had  protested  against  it ; 
they  also  make  their  habitation  too  hot  for  one,  and  there 
must  be  reason  in  everything !  The  devil  was  then  obliged 
to  be  content  with  my  two  pieces  ;  but  it  is  his  determination 
that  they  shall  be  replaced  by  the  newest,  real,  detestable 
comedies  that  Heiberg  is  to  give  us,  with  a  prologue  written 
by  his  intimate  friends,  which  shall  put  the  public  in  the  way 
to  understand  and  admire  ;  after  which  the  usual  apotheosis, 
also  by  one  of  his  intimate  friends.  See,  this  is  how  a  man 
dreams  in  quarantine  1 

At  last  we  were  all  sick,  and  the  doctor  prescribed  a  medi- 
cine which  appeared  to  me  excellent  for  Wallachian  horses, 
but  not  for  weak  persons  suffering  from  pains  in  the  stomach. 
We  were  first  to  drink  a  large  glass  of  spirits,  and  then  a  cup 
of  strong  coffee,  without  sugar  or  cream. 

The  least  varied  life  has,  however,  its  great  events ;  ours 
had  three  in  this  place.  One  was  a  visit  from  the  Pasha  of 
Orsova.  The  bare  arbor  in  the  garden  served  as  the  saloon 
of  conversation.  Six  soldiers,  with  bandoliers  over  their  blue 
jackets,  and  bayonets  on  their  muskets,  together  with  the 

1  Pocnu :  1840.  A  book  which  I  consider  as  the  very  best  of  Hciberg'i 
works. 


THE  QUARANTINE.  2 99 

interpreter,  doctor,  and  servants,  formed  the  suite.  The  next 
great  event  was,  that  we  each  got  an  old  washer-woman,  who 
was  to  wash  our  things  ;  and  then  the  quarantine  was  over 
with  us !  We  got  the  keeper's  wife.  The  old  married  pair 
slept  in  the  passage  on  our  table ;  a  rolled-up  jacket  served  as 
pillow,  and  a  soldier's  cloak  was  the  coverlet,  all  in  the  en- 
campment style !  The  doctor  was  everything  with  them  — 
awake  and  asleep ;  they  never  mentioned  his  name  without 
assuming  a  look  of  pompous  importance.  The  third  event 
was  accompanied  with  music  and  declamation.  The  most 
frightful  shouting  and  screaming  proceeded  from  a  window 
across  the  harbor,  to  a  neighboring  one,  from  some  ragged 
fellows,  who,  seven  years  before,  had  fled  from  Austria  into 
Wallachia,  and  had  lived  there,  but  had  returned,  of  their  own 
accord,  from  a  feeling  of  home-sickness.  They  had  them- 
selves reported  their  return  to  the  authorities,  and  were  now 
obliged  to  perform  their  quarantine  before  they  were  delivered 
up.  Before  the  sun  rose,  and  until  it  was  dark  in  the  evening, 
they  conversed  or  played  on  Bulgarian  flutes  ;  but  always  the 
same  piece,  of  two  or,  at  most,  of  three  notes.  It  sounded  as 
when  one  blows  in  a  tulip  leaf,  and,  at  the  same  time,  treads 
on  a  cat's  tail. 

At  length  our  hour  of  freedom  struck ;  but  the  Pasha  had  a 
dinner-party,  or  something  of  the  kind.  All  of  us,  therefore, 
were  obliged  to  wait  a  whole  hour  beyond  our  term  of  impris 
onment  —  a  whole  hour,  which  seemed  like  a  day,  before  we 
could  depart  •  and  then  it  was  not  with  mirth,  as  when  we 
came.  We  were  exhausted.  We,  who  had  pleased  ourselves 
so  much  with  the  thought  of  liberty,  were  out  of  practice,  and 
could  scarcely  lift  our  wings.  Those  who  leave  a  vessel  have 
often  a  sensation  of  seasickness  for  some  time  afterward ;  we 
had,  in  the  same  manner,  a  feeling  of  the  quarantine.  It  was 
a  long  time  before  poetic  images  of  memory  mirrored  them- 
selves in  my  mind,  and  then  they  showed  the  view  of  that  poor 
little  house  I  had  seen  from  the  tree,  between  fields  and  wood. 
They  brought  the  tones  of  the  flute-player  from  Bucharest  to 
my  ear.  They  let  me  feel  again  Sunday's  devotion  in  our 
orison,  when  Ainsworth  sa*  still  and  read  his  Bible,  Pater 
Adam  sang  mass  with  his  Armenian  boys,  and  I  looked  at  the 


3OO  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

green  vine  leaves  by  my  trellis,  where  the  bright  sun  shone  so 
warm  that  my  thoughts  flew  out  into  nature  —  and  there  we 
are  always  near  the  Almighty  1 


VII. 

IT  IS  SUNDAY  TO-DAY  ! 

IT  is  Sunday  in  the  almanac  —  Sunday  in  God's  nature  ! 
Let  us  away  into  the  mountains,  to  Mehadia,  Hungary's  most 
beautifully  situated  bathing-place !  What  myriads  of  flowers 
in  the  high  grass !  what  sunshine  on  the  mountain's  wood-clad 
sides  !  The  air  is  so  blue,  so  transparent !  It  is  Sunday  to- 
day !  and  therefore  all  the  people  we  meet  are  in  their  holi- 
day clothes. 

The  black,  shining,  plaited  hair  of  the  girls  is  adorned  with 
fresh  flowers,  a  branch  of  laburnum,  or  a  dark-red  carnation  j 
the  large  sleeves  of  their  chemises  are  embroidered  with  green 
and  red ;  the  skirt  is  long  breadths  of  red,  blue,  and  yellow. 
Even  the  little  old  woman  is  dressed  thus  gayly,  and  has  a 
flower  on  her  white  linen.  The  lads  and  boys  have  roses  in 
their  hats  ;  the  smallest  one  looks  splendid  indeed  ;  his  short 
shirt  hangs  out  over  his  trousers  ;  a  branch  of  laburnum  is 
fastened  round  his  large  hat,  which  bends  down  half  over  his 
eyes.  Yes,  it  is  Sunday  to-day  ! 

What  solitude  in  these  mountains !  Life  and  health  gush 
from  these  wells !  Music  is  heard  from  the  large  and  hand- 
some bathing  saloon.  The  nightingale  sings  in  the  bright 
sunlight,  amongst  the  balmy  trees,  where  the  wild  vines  wind 
their  tendrils.  Beautiful  nature !  my  best,  my  most  holy 
church  !  here  my  heart  tells  me,  "  It  is  Sunday  to-day  !  " 

We  are  again  in  Orsova.  The  brass  ball  on  the  church 
tower  shines  in  the  sun  ;  the  door  stands  ajar.  How  solitary 
within !  The  priest  stands  in  his  mass-robes,  and  raises  his 
voice;  it  is  Pater  Adam.  Little  Antonius  kneels,  and  swings 
the  censer ;  the  elder  boy,  Jeronimus,  takes  his  place  in  the 
middle  of  the  aisle,  and  represents  the  whole  Armenian  con- 
gregation. 


FROM  ORSOVA    TO  DRENCOVA.  30 1 

In  the  market-place,  outside  the  church,  where  the  linden- 
trees  are  in  flower,  is  a  great  dance  of  old  and  young ;  the 
musicians  stand  in  the  centre  of  the  circle,  the  one  plays  the 
bagpipe,  the  other  scrapes  the  violin.  The  circle  turns  first  to 
the  right,  then  to  the  left.  They  are  all  in  their  best,  with 
fringes,  flowers,  and  bare  legs  ;  it  is  Sunday  to  day ! 

Some  little  boys  are  running  about  with  only  a  shirt  on 
their  bodies,  but  they  have  a  large  man's  hat  on  their  heads, 
and  on  the  hat  there  is  a  flower  ;  dignified  officials,  gentlemen 
and  ladies,  dressed  quite  in  the  Vienna  mode,  walk  past  and 
look  at  the  people,  the  dancing  folks  !  The  red  evening  sun 
shines  on  the  white  church  tower,  or  the  yellow-brown  Dan- 
ube, and  on  the  wood-clad  Servian  mountains.  Grant  it  may 
shine  on  my  song,  when  I  sing  about  it.  How  beautiful  and 
lively,  how  fresh  and  characteristic  !  Everything  gives  token 
of  a  feast ;  everything  shows  that  it  is  Sunday  to-day  ! 


VIII. 

A   JOURNEY    ALONG    THE    DANUBE    FROM    ORSOVA    TO    DREN- 

COVA. 

THE  greater  part  of  the  voyage  along  the  Danube  between 
Orsova  and  Drencova,  is  much  more  dangerous  to  navigate 
than  that  through  the  "  Iron  Gate."  The  stream  here  has  a 
more  angry  power,  the  falls  are  greater  and  more  frequent,  the 
eddies  far  more  extended.  It  was  on  this  passage  that  the 
boat,  which  carried  the  steam-vessel's  passengers,  capsized 
two  years  before,  and  every  soul  met  a  watery  grave.  It  was, 
as  we  were  told,  a  gray,  rainy  day,  somewhat  stormy.  The 
captain  stood  at  the  rudder,  and  the  boat  was  full  of  passen- 
gers ;  it  was  no  easy  maneuver  to  steer  it  between  the  pro- 
jecting rocks  in  the  river  ;  a  troop  of  peasants  strove  upon  the 
shore,  and  drew  it  through  the  strong  eddies,  whilst  the  storm 
lifted  the  foam  many  yards  into  the  air.  The  captain  shouted 
to  the  peasants,  bidding  them  drag  the  vessel  more  slowly  : 
they  did  not  hear  him  ;  the  storm  and  current  deafened  his 
shouts.  He  once  more  repeated  the  command  ;  they  mis- 


3O2  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

understood  him,  and  pulled  more  vigorously,  and  at  the  same 
moment  the  boat  ran  against  a  piece  of  rock ;  it  upset,  and  all 
attempts  to  save  the  crew  and  passengers  were  unavailing. 
Some  of  the  bodies  were  found  far  away  from  the  place  where 
the  accident  happened,  —  amongst  others  that  of  a  young  Eng- 
lishman. His  relatives  have  erected  a  mgnument  close  by 
the  river  where  his  body  was  found,  and  where  he  lies  in- 
terred. 

From  the  time  that  this  misfortune  happened,  the  steam 
company  have  not  allowed  any  of  their  passengers  to  make 
the  voyage  here  in  boats  ;  they  ride  or  drive.  An  excellent 
carriage-road  is  now  completed  here  under  the  direction  of 
Count  Schechenyi's  and  Engineer  Director  Basarhety's  in- 
spection. 

All  the  baggage,  on  the  contrary,  is  sent  the  day  before  the 
travellers  depart,  in  boats  drawn  by  horses. 

Early  in  the  morning  of  the  twenty-fourth  of  May,  the  car- 
riage stood  before  the  hotel,  and  we  rolled  away. 

It  was  the  most  charming  summer  weather  ;  everything  round 
about  was  green  and  fertile  ;  rocks  with  bushes  and  leaf-trees 
rose  on  the  Servian  side  ;  whilst  on  our  own,  the  Austrian  side, 
the  whole  seemed  one  large  garden,  with  ever-varying  scenes. 
Sometimes  the  mountains  were  quite  close  to  us,  sometimes 
they  retreated,  and  inclosed  wood-grown  valleys.  I  had 
never  before  seen  so  many  butterflies  as  I  did  this  morning  : 
they  were  all  white,  and  thousands  of  trees  were  covered  with 
them,  so  that  one  might  think  they  were  blooming  fruit-trees. 
Here  I  might  have  said  with  Jean  Paul,  "  Schmetterlingc  sind 
flifgende  blumcn."  The  postilion  cracked  his  whip  right  and 
left,  and  the  butterflies  flew  in  the  air  like  snow-flakes  in  winter. 

Wallachian  peasants  live  in  this  district  of  the  military 
boundary  ;  we  passed  through  a  few  of  their  very  picturesque 
villages.  The  clay  walls  showed  large  cracks ;  paper  was 
pasted  over  the  hole  that  served  as  a  window  ;  a  sort  of  gate 
bound  fast  to  some  posts  with  bark-rope,  formed  the  entrance 
to  a  kind  of  yard,  which  generally  swarmed  with  a  herd  of 
swine  and  an  incredible  number  of  almost  naked  children, 
tumbling  and  rolling  about  together  ;  even  girls  of  nine  or  ten 
years  of  age  ran  about  entirely  without  clothes.  Round  aboul 


FROM  ORSOVA    TO  DRENCOVA.  303 

stood  magnificent  trees,  especially  large  and  odorous  chestnuts. 
The  peasants  we  met  now  and  then  stood  upright  in  their  wag- 
ons, and  hurried  away  like  the  old  Romans  on  the  chariot 
course. 

The  country  became  more  and  more  of  a  romantic  charac- 
ter ;  in  beauty  it  far  surpasses  the  shores  of  the  Rhine.  At 
Plavisovicza,  where  the  pass  of  Kazan  is  situated,  the  Danube 
runs  between  perpendicular  rocks  ;  the  road  here  is  cut  through 
the  rock,  and  the  masses  of  cliff  hang  like  a  polished  ceiling 
over  the  traveller's  head.  We  find  one  large  cavern  by  the 
side  of  the  other  for  a  great  extent ;  one  of  these  is  of  such  a 
length,  that  they  say  it  takes  an  hour  and  a  half  to  walk  through 
it ;  at  last  we  come  out  into  a  valley  on  the  other  side  of  the 
mountain.  The  most  famous  one  here  is  the  so  called  Vetera- 
nis'  cavern.  We  halted  outside  it ;  no  entrance  was  to  be  seen. 
The  whole  rock  is  grown  over  with  bushes  and  creeping  plants  ; 
a  little  path  ran  along  between  the  hedges  ;  it  was  steep,  with 
many  loose  stones,  but  then  we  had  the  green  branches  to  hold 
by,  and  we  climbed  easily  the  few  fathoms  to  an  entrance 
above  the  high-road,  which  was  large  and  convenient  enough 
for  a  full  grown  man.  A  few  paces  within,  we  were  obliged  to 
stoop  a  little,  but  the  cavern  soon  expanded  into  a  spacious, 
but  gloomy  chamber ;  from  this  we  entered  an  immense  cav- 
ern where  the  light  streamed  down  through  a  large  opening, 
the  topmost  edge  of  which  was  grown  over  with  bushes  and 
long  creeping  plants,  forming  a  flowery  frame  to  the  blue  air 
above  ;  the  ceiling  or  roof  had  the  appearance  of  petrified 
clouds  ;  the  floor  was  uneven  and  damp.  Here  and  there  lay 
large  fallen  stones,  and  in  a  corner  were  some  charcoal  and 
half  burnt  branches,  left  by  the  last  herdsmen,  or  by  gypsies, 
who  had  had  their  meals  here  :  a  few  drops  of  water  fell  with  a 
monotonous  and  dripping  sound  to  the  floor. 

The  cavern  consists  of  an  endless  number  of  compartments. 
We  went  to  one  of  the  nearest ;  I  was  foremost,  but  was  soon 
stopped  by  the  surprising  sight  before  me.  A  large  fire  had 
been  kindled  in  the  middle  of  the  floor ;  a  caldron  was  boil- 
ng  over  it.  Round  about  lay  or  stood  men  and  women  in 
white  dresses,  with  mulatto-colored  faces  and  long  black  hair. 
Two  young  lads  sprang  toward  me  as  quick  as  cats,  stretched 


304  A   POETS  BAZAAR. 

out  their  hands  in  a  begging  manner  and  addressed  me  in  a 
language  that  was  incomprehensible  to  me.  It  was  a  gypsy 
family.  The  younger  ones  were  so  lively,  so  active,  that  the- 
contrast  was  remarkable  between  them  and  two  old  ones  who 
sat  by  the  fire.  Their  hair  hung  stiff  and  thickly  down  about 
their  horrid  faces  ;  and  their  clothes,  as  well  as  the  manner  in 
which  they  sat,  made  it  a  matter  of  difficulty  to  me  to  decide  if 
they  were  two  men  or  two  women.  Our  party  gave  each  of 
the  young  lads  a  trifle.  One  of  the  children  got  a  little  silver 
coin  of  me  ;  when  immediately  an  elder  girl  sprang  toward  me, 
seized  my  hand,  drew  me  toward  the  fire,  looked  in  my  hand, 
then  courtesied  three  times  down  to  the  ground,  and  predicted 
or  told  my  fortune.  But  I  understood  not  a  word  of  it. 

From  the  translation  which  a  young  gentleman  from  Bucha- 
rest afterward  gave  me  of  what  the  girl  said,  or  rather  of  as 
much  as  he  understood,  the  augury  seemed  to  have  been  more 
applicable  to  a  rich  Englishman  than  a  Danish  poet.  "  Thy 
silver  shall  become  gold,  and  thy  possessions  increase  year  by 
year,"  she  had  said. 

On  my  asking  if  the  girl  had  not  predicted  anything  bad  for 
me,  he  told  me  that  she  had  said  I  should  have  the  least  com- 
fort in  my  daughters.  And  there  she  had  certainly  hit  the 
right  nail  on  the  head,  as  it  regards  the  poet,  for  "  Agnete  "  and 
"  The  Moorish  Girl  "  '  have  brought  me  but  little  comfort.  I 
must,  therefore,  always  strive  to  have  boys. 

The  rest  of  our  party  had  also  their  fortunes  told  ;  but  I 
was,  on  the  whole,  the  luckiest  of  them  all. 

On  the  Servian  side,  along  the  whole  of  this  part  01  the 
Danube,  is  found  an  antique  road  hewn  in  the  rock,  which 
has  existed  since  the  time  of  the  Romans'  dominion.  We 
saw,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  stream,  the  so-called  Trajan's 
Slate.  It  consists  of  a  smooth  rock,  with  an  inscription  in 
memory  of  Trajan's  first  expedition  into  Dacia. 

In  the  forenoon  we  reached  the  village  of  Tisowiza,  where 
we  were  to  enjoy  our  breakfast  in  a  poor  inn.  The  landlord 
had  not  been  informed  that  the  steam- vessel's  passengers 
would  arrive  that  day.  We  therefore  came  on  him  quite  un- 
expectedly ;  and  he  had  to  make  a  hasty  slaughter  amongst  al1 
1  Two  comedies. 


FROM  ORSOVA    TO   DRENCOVA.  305 

the  chickens  in  the  town.  The  lowest  story  of  the  house 
consisted  of  two  stone  cellars  ;  above  these  hung  a  very  fragile 
wooden  balcony,  the  whole  length  of  the  house,  from  whence 
we  entered  a  sort  of  passage  where  the  chimney  stood,  and 
where  the  food  was  prepared.  On  each  side  was  a  dingy  and 
uncomfortable  chamber.  We,  therefore,  all  preferred  to  be  in 
the  open  air,  and  accordingly  encamped  under  some  tall  shady 
chestnuts.  Most  of  us  were  still  sick  from  the  quarantine.  1, 
in  particular,  felt  myself  suffering  from  it. 

After  a  few  hours'  stay  we  again  set  off,  still  along  the 
banks  of  the  Danube.  We  passed  the  ruins  of  three  large  tow- 
ers of  the  time  of  the  Romans ;  they  were  built  close  to  the 
stream,  and  had  been  converted  into  guard-houses.  A  bridge 
of  wood  led  from  the  road  out  to  them.  Armed  boundary 
soldiers  sat  there  and  played  cards,  or  sat  astride  on  the  wooden 
balustrades.  There  is  an  avenue  of  handsome  walnut-trees 
almost  the  whole  way.  We  tore  off  the  scented  leaves  as  we 
drove  along ;  and  with  a  branch,  by  way  of  fan,  we  screened 
ourselves  from  the  burning  sun,  when  the  large  trees  did  not 
afford  us  shade.  How  intensely  hot  it  was ;  we  languished 
with  thirst !  The  beaten  road  almost  ceased  ;  it  was  so  narrow 
at  length,  that  one  wheel  touched  the  rocks'  sides,  and  the  other 
was  only  an  inch  or  two  from  the  slope  down  to  the  rushing 
river.  We  drove  at  a  foot-pace,  but  soon  even  this  began  to 
appear  too  dangerous.  We  were  obliged  to  descend  ;  but  a 
descent  was  only  to  be  effected  by  creeping  down  from  behind 
the  carriage,  for  there  was  no  place  on  either  side.  Suddenly 
the  road  entirely  ceased  !  A  number  of  men  were  employed 
in  widening  and  leveling  it,  and  in  walling  a  sort  of  foundation. 
Before  us  was  a  perpendicular  declivity  of  about  four  feet. 

The  people  said  that  no  one  had  informed  them  there  would 
be  any  travellers  that  day,  and  that  we  must  consequently 
stop  until  they  had  made  an  inclined  plane,  for  road  it  could 
not  be  called.  Poles  and  boughs  of  trees  were  laid  down  from 
the  top  where  we  stood.  The  horses  were  taken  from  the  car- 
riages, and  the  carriages  were  slid  down,  but  the  pole  of  one 
of  them  was  broken. 

A  new  misfortune,  which  might  have  produced  unpleasant 
results,  awaited  us.     The  hewn  road  in  the  rock  on  the  Ser 
20 


306  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

vian  side  is  not  as  available  as  it  was  in  the  time  of  Trajan, 
for  it  cannot  be  used  in  our  times.  The  Servians  must  there- 
fore drag  their  vessels  along  under  military  guard  :  to  come 
in  contact  in  any  way  with  these  people,  or  with  the  long  rope 
with  which  they  haul  the  vessel,  has  this  result,  —  the  offender 
is  charged  with  a  contumacious  contempt  of  authority. 

We  saw  before  us  about  a  hundred  Servian  peasants,  who 
dragged  a  very  large  river  vessel  up  against  the  stream.  They 
raised  one  continued  and  monotonous  howl ;  the  vessel  made 
slow  way  against  the  strong  current.  We  had  to  drive  foot  by 
foot,  for  the  road  was  not  broad  enough  in  any  one  place  to 
pass  them.  All  the  plagues  of  the  quarantine  were  still  in  our 
blood  !  I  could  not  conceive  at  that  moment  any  more  fear- 
ful command  than  that  of  "  Return  again  to  quarantine  !  "  We 
drove  foot  by  foot,  then  stopped ;  drove  again  foot  by  foot  to 
stop  again !  I  had  a  feeling  as  though  I  were  bound  to  go 
round  the  world  with  leaden  weights  to  my  feet. 

At  length  we  arrived  at  a  place  where  the  road  was  a  little 
broader  than  before,  and  where  the  soldiers  that  guarded  the 
Servians  thought  that  we  could  glide  past.  The  tails  of  our 
horses  were  bound  up  that  they  might  not,  untimely  whisking 
them,  touch  the  rope.  Our  baggage,  and  even  the  leather  cur- 
tains of  our  carriages,  were  well  drawn  in  toward  us.  The 
poor  Servian  peasants  placed  themselves  as  close  to  the  bank 
of  the  river  as  they  possibly  could,  and  yet  we  were  not  more 
than  a  foot  from  them.  We  now  drove  slowly  and  cautiously 
past  the  whole  of  that  long  row  of  at  least  a  hundred  men : 
if  even  the  whip-lash  had  touched  the  skirt  of  one  of  their 
coats,  we  should  have  had  to  return  again  to  the  quaran- 
tine in  Orsova. 

O,  how  freely  we  breathed  !  How  the  coachman  drove  his 
horses  when  we  had  passed  them !  We  went  at  a  gallop 
through  the  wood,  over  small  fords,  and  past  bubbling  wells  ; 
the  green  branches  lashed  our  faces  and  shoulders.  The 
prospect  toward  the  little  town  of  Drencova,  where  the  steam- 
vessel  Galatea  awaited  us,  now  opened  through  wood  and 
river. 

Before  the  year  1836,  Drencova  was  only  a  guard-house 
but  the  steam  navigation  of  the  Danube  will  soon  transform 


FROM  ORSOVA    TO  DRENCOVA. 


307 


it  into  an  important  town.  There  were,  at  this  time,  several 
respectable  buildings  in  the  place  ;  one  of  them  was  an  inn. 
About  a  day's  journey  from  hence  grow  the  famous  vines,  from 
which  the  wine  called  Schiller  is  made.  I  drank  a  cup  of  it 
here,  in  honor  of  its  name-giver ;  the  spiritual  wine  he  has 
given  us  will  bear  exportation  to  all  the  countries  of  the 
world,  for  it  can  only  inspire,  not  intoxicate. 

It  was  with  great  joy  that  we  entered  that  roomy  and  hand- 
some steam-vessel  which  was  to  carry  us  to  the  capital  of 
Hungary  ;  and  we  gladdened  ourselves  with  the  thought  of  the 
many  comforts  it  offered  ;  "  but  no  one  knows  his  fate  ! "  — 
with  this  sage  remark,  we  might  aptly  conclude  our  day's  jour- 
ney. A  very  large  fair  is  held  in  Pesth  four  times  a  year,  when 
people  from  the  most  remote  corners  of  the  most  distant  lands 
stream  thither  ;  the  steam-vessels  are  then  in  such  request 
that  they  are  invariably  overcrowded,  and  it  so  happened  that 
we  should  arrive  in  Pesth  two  days  before  the  great  St.  Me- 
dardus  fair.1  The  landlord  predicted  a  highly  unpleasant  and 
troublesome  voyage  for  us ;  but  we  did  not  believe  him,  and 
thought  that  he  wanted  to  entice  us  to  botanize  here  until  the 
next  steam-vessel  arrived,  and  meanwhile  drink  a  toast  to 
Schiller,  in  schiller,  every  evening  with  him. 

At  sunset  I  strolled  alone  into  the  forest  close  by,  where  I 
likewise  met  gypsies.  They  had  made  a  fire,  and  sat  around 
it.  When  I  emerged  from  the  forest,  a  fine  peasant  boy,  who 
stood  amongst  the  bushes,  greeted  me  with  a  good-evening  in 
German.  I  asked  him  if  it  were  his  mother-tongue  he  spoke  ; 
he  answered  "  No,"  and  told  me  that  he  generally  spoke  Walla- 
chian,  but  had  learned  German  at  school.  He  seemed  by  his 
clothes  to  be  very  poor ;  but  everything  he  had  on  was  so 
clean,  his  hair  so  smoothly  combed,  his  eyes  beamed  so  hap- 
pily, there  was  something  so  wise  and  good  in  that  face,  that  I 
have  never  seen  a  child  more  interesting.  I  asked  him  if  he 
would  be  a  soldier,  and  he  replied :  "  Yes,  we  must  all  be  so 
here ;  but  I  may  one  day  be  an  officer,  and  therefore  I  mean  to 
learn  all  I  can ! "  There  was  something  so  innocent  in  his 
whole  behavior,  something  so  noble,  that  I  am  certain  if  I 
had  been  rich  I  should  have  adopted  that  boy. 

1  It  begins  on  the  first  of  May,  and  continues  about  a  fortnight. 


308  A   POETS  BAZAAR. 

I  told  him  that  he  must  be  an  officer,  and  that  he  would 
certainly  become  one  if  he  zealously  endeavored  to  improve 
himself,  and  put  his  trust  in  God. 

On  my  asking  him  if  he  knew  Denmark,  he  bethought  him- 
self a  little,  and  then  answered  :  "  I  think  it  is  far  from  here 
—  near  Hamburg  !  " 

I  could  not  give  alms  to  him  ;  he  seemed  to  me  too  nc 
ble  to  receive  any.  I  begged  him  to  pluck  me  some  flow- 
ers ;  he  darted  off,  and  soon  brought  me  a  pretty  bouquet ;  I 
took  it,  and  said  :  "  Now  I  will  buy  these  flowers !  "  —  and  so 
he  came  by  his  payment.  He  was  quite  red  in  the  face,  but 
thanked  me  prettily.  He  told  me  that  his  name  was  Adam 
Marco  ;  I  took  my  card  out  of  my  pocket,  gave  it  to  him,  and 
said,  "  When  you  are  an  officer,  perhaps  you  may  come  to 
Denmark.  If  so,  ask  after  me,  and  I  shall  rejoice  with  you 
over  your  good  fortune  !  Be  diligent  and  trust  in  God.  Who 
knows  what  may  happen  ? "  I  shook  hands  with  him.  He 
stood  long,  and  looked  at  the  vessel  which  I  entered. 

Never  has  any  boy  made  such  an  impression  on  me,  at  a 
first  meeting,  as  this  ;  his  noble  manners,  his  sensible,  inno- 
cent face,  were  the  best  patent  of  nobility.  He  must  be  an 
officer  ;  and  I  give  this  my  mite  to  help  that  consummation. 
Sure  enough,  it  is  borne  on  the  wings  of  chance  ;  and  I  here 
bow  to  every  noble,  rich  Hungarian  dame  who  may  perchance 
read  this  book,  and  perhaps  have  a  friendly  thought  to  spare 
for  "  The  Improvisatore,"  or  "  Only  a  Fiddler ; "  and  I  beg 
her  —  the  poet  begs  her  —  if  he  has,  unknown  to  himself,  one 
rich  friend  in  Hungary  or  Wallachia,  to  think  of  Adam  Marco 
near  Drencova,  and  help  her  little  countryman  forward,  if  he 
deserves  it 


IX. 

A  VOYAGE   UP   THE    DANUBE    FROM    DRENCOVA  TO  SEMLIN. 

IT  was  morning ;  the  vessel  had  long  been  going  at  full 
speed.  We  had  lost  sight  of  Drencova.  Wood-grown  rocks 
arose  on  both  sides  of  the  river  ;  a  range  of  clouds  hung  like 


FROM  DRENCOVA    TO  SEMLIN.  309 

a  hovering  bridge  over  the  stream.  We  sailed  in  directly  under 
them  ;  and  the  cloud-bridge  was  no  longer  steadfast.  Do  Ob- 
eron  and  Titania  yet  live?  If  so,  I  am  sure  the  elves  had  made 
that  bridge  for  them  the  night  before.  It  suddenly  changed  to 
a  balloon-shaped  cloud,  as  the  smoke  from  the  steamer  mixed 
with  it.  The  country  around  was  picturesquely  beautiful.  A 
rocky  cliff  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  Danube  in  the  form  of 
a  rhinoceros'  horn,  and  is  called  Babekey ;  the  word  may  be 
Turkish,  Servian,  or  Slavonian.  In  the  Servian  language  it 
signifies,  "  Be  still,  old  one  !  "  in  Turkish,  "  The  rocks' 
father  ! "  in  Slavonian,  "  Repent,  old  man !  "  and  this  last 
explanation  agrees  with  the  common  legend  connected  with 
the  cliff.  A  jealous  husband  is  said  to  have  placed  his  wife 
there  in  the  midst  of  the  rapid  current.  The  rock  is  just  so 
large  that  one  person  can  conveniently  stand  there,  and  if  he 
be  in  a  fitting  humor,  enjoy  a  very  beautiful  prospect ;  for  on 
the  Servian  side  lies  the  mountain  fortress  of  Gobulaza,  on 
a  rock  standing  perpendicularly  out  of  the  river,  and  in  the 
background  dark  woods.  A  part  of  this  fortress  is  from  the 
time  of  the  Romans.  A  hundred  years  ago  it  was  a  robber's 
castle  ;  wild  songs  and  the  clash  of  drinking  cups  sounded 
there  in  the  night,  whilst  the  Danube  dashed  its  wayes  against 
the  solitary  cliff  Babekey,  which  often  became  a  life's  meta  for 
many  a  poor  prisoner.  We  soon  passed  Moldavia,  famous  for 
its  copper  mines ;  then  the  hamlet  of  Basiasch,  with  its  poor 
little  cloister  ;  at  every  place  we  got  a  few  passengers  ;  one 
of  them,  from  the  last  named  place,  was  an  elderly  gentleman, 
who  seemed  to  be  seal  engraver  or  seal  collector,  for  he  walked 
about  with  his  sign  on  his  stomach.  Above  a  dozen  large 
and  small  seals  hung  from  his  watch  ;  he  was  a  living  chari 
of  the  Danube,  and  I  owe  the  treble  explanation  of  the  name 
Babekey  to  him.  The  name  of  the  little  town  O-Palanka, 
which  we  approached,  he  said,  was  derived  from  a  Slavonian 
word  signifying  a  defense  with  piles  ;  and  gave  it  as  his  opir- 
ion,  that  in  the  time  of  the  Romans  the  fortification  here  had 
been  of  that  kind.  Our  only  passenger  from  that  place  was  a 
lady,  who,  at  the  moment  that  the  vessel  laid  to,  and  a  man 
sprung  on  board  with  her  trunk,  cried  out :  "  No,  no !  I  will 
go  by  land !  "  And  she  ran  like  a  despairing  sheep  after  the 


3IO  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

wolf  that  had  carried  off  her  young  —  the  large,  well-nailed 
trunk.  She  was  on  deck  ;  at  the  same  moment  the  steam 
whistled  out  of  the  blow-pipe  ;  in  her  astonishment  she  re- 
mained standing  motionless,  and  held  her  yellow  ticket  in  her 
hand  ;  the  mate  took  it,  and  we —  we  went  on.  "  Yes,  but  I 
would  rather  go  by  land  !  "  said  the  lady.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  her  life  she  had  ventured  on  board  a  steam-vessel ;  she 
had  been  over-persuaded  ;  it  was  not  her  own  wish.  She  as- 
sured us  that  she  had  not  slept  the  night  before  for  thinking 
about  this  voyage.  She  was  going  far  away,  up  to  the  town  of 
Yucavar,  two  whole  days'  voyage  !  However,  she  had  only 
taken  her  place  as  far  as  Semlin,  to  ascertain  whether  she  should 
be  blown  into  the  air  or  not.  She  was  an  economical  woman. 
She  would  not  pay  for  the  whole  voyage  at  once.  She  would 
first  see  whether  she  got  over  half  of  it  alive  ! 

She  had  heard  of  so  many  dreadful  misfortunes  with  steam- 
vessels  and  steam-carriages,  and  "  they  are  terrible  discover- 
ies !  "  said  she.  "  O,  if  it  would  only  not  explode  with  us  !  " 
and  then  she  looked  anxiously  on  all  sides.  "  The  captain 
should  keep  nearer  the  shore  ! "  was  her  meaning,  so  that 
one  could  at  least  spring  ashore  when  the  vessel  blew  up. 
Our  grave  .man  with  the  seals  now  gave  a  popular  lecture  on 
the  nature  of  the  blow-pipe  and  valve,  for  her  edification  ;  but 
she  shook  her  head,  and  could  not  understand  a  word  of  it 
I  then  attempted  to  translate  it  for  her  into  a  still  more  pop- 
ular one,  and  she  appeared  to  understand  me,  for  at  every  sen- 
tence she  said  "  Yes."  "  Imagine,  Madame,"  said  I,  •'  that 
you  have  a  pot  on  the  fire :  the  water  in  it  boils  very  fast,  a 
large  lid  covers  it  as  tight  as  if  it  were  screwed  fast ;  then  the 
pot  will  spring  from  the  hot  steam  within  it,  but  if  it  be  a  light, 
loose  lid,  then  the  lid  tilts  up  and  down,  but  the  pot  will  not 
spring !  "  "  But  God  preserve  us !  "  said  the  lady  ;  "  when 
the  lid"  —  and  here  she  pointed  to  the  deck  —  "when  the  lid 
here  over  the  steam-engine  tilts  up,  we  shall  be  tumbled  into 
the  Danube  !  "  and  she  took  a  fast  hold  of  the  bulwark. 

Toward  noon  we  passed  Kubin.     A  majestic  thunder  cloud 
hung  over  the  town.     The  clouds  formed  an  Alpine  land  of 
greatness  and  darkness.     The  lightning's  flash  was  the  moun-" 
tain  path  ;   it  ran  in  the  boldest  zigzag.      The  thunder  rolled 


FROM  DRENCOVA    TO   SEMLIN.  3!! 

above  us,  not  as  the  fall  of  an  avalanche  ;  no,  but  like  the 
mountains  themselves  crashing  together.  Yet  it  continued 
equally  hot  as  before,  the  air  was  oppressively  warm.  Our 
poor  lady,  however,  was  still  warmer  than  we.  She  had 
thrown  her  large  shawl  around  her,  so  that  she  could  neither 
see  nor  hear,  and  sat,  with  a  beating  heart,  waiting  for  the 
great  explosion  the  vessel  was  to  make.  I  proposed  to  her  to 
go  down  into  the  ladies'  cabin  ;  but  she  answered  No,  with  her 
hand,  for  she  could  not  speak  otherwise.  We  darted  on  rap- 
idly against  the  stream,  alongside  the  endless  forests  of  Servia, 
the  green  color  of  which  began  to  weary  me.  I  felt  a  desire 
for  a  view  of  the  mountains  of  Attica,  or  even  a  piece  of  Jut- 
land heath.  The  storm  was  quite  over  when  we  passed  the 
Turkish  fortress,  Semendria.  It  forms  a  triangle,  is  fortified 
with  walls,  and  has  many  towers,  mostly  square  or  round,  all 
ruinous,  as  well  as  the  circular  walls.  It  was  not  possible  to 
suppose  that  this  place  represented  a  fortress  built  in  our  time. 
On  one  tower,  the  roof  consisted  merely  of  loose  laths  ;  we 
could  see  the  open  sky  through  them.  Two  Turkish  soldiers 
sat  in  an  open  hole  in  the  turret,  and  stared  after  us.  They 
were  the  only  living  beings  we  saw  in  all  that  long  ruinous 
building.  The  town  itself  was  insignificant ;  a  little  wooden 
minaret,  whitewashed  over,  was  the  whole  ornament  of  the 
place.  That  oppressive  air,  that  nausea  one  felt,  —  yes,  it 
looked  as  if  the  fortress  itself  was  "  struck  all  of  a  heap  "  with 
loathing  and  tediousness.  The  waves  of  the  Danube  were 
quite  yellow  ;  people  sat  on  the  deck  with  umbrellas  over  their 
heads  and  slept.  Everything  we  touched  was  glowing  hot. 
Our  lady  ordered  one  glass  of  water  after  another  ;  she  took 
camphor  drops  on  sugar. 

The  next  place  we  passed  was  Panscova,  a  town  of  which 
they  say  that  it  is  the  custom  there  for  young  and  old,  nay, 
even  for  the  poorest,  to  paint  themselves.  When  the  ladies 
there  weep  over  a  novel  or  romance,  one  may  reckon  all  their 
real  tears  ;  they  will  be  seen  like  pink  spots  on  the  white 
leaves  of  a  book !  The  sun  went  down,  it  was  still  quite 
sultry :  the  crescent  moon  hung  directly  over  the  fortress  of 
Belgrade.  On  the  German  side  there  were  strong  flashes  of 
lightning.  Lights  moved  here  and  there  on  shore.  We  shot 


312  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

past  the  roaring  Sava ;  it  was  quite  dark  ;  some  minutes  after- 
ward we  lay  still,  close  to  the  shore,  outside  Semlin,  the  first 
Austrian  town  on  our  right  side  ;  the  river  Sava  here  formed 
the  boundary  toward  Servia.  Here  then  we  were  to  leave 
the  military  boundaries,  and  pass  through  Hungary  itself.  All 
the  steam-vessels  remain  two  days  and  a  night  at  Semlir.  we 
had,  therefore,  plenty  of  time  to  say  farewell  to  the  last  city 
with  minarets.  The  lady  would  not,  however,  remain  the  night 
over  on  board  the  steamer.  She  had  a  relation  in  Semlin  ;  she 
would  stay  with  him,  —  nay,  stay  away  altogether.  She  there- 
fore went  ashore  the  first  opportunity. 

It  was  morning  ;  all  around  lay  in  broad  sunlight.  The 
country  around  Semlin  is  flat ;  to  the  left,  a  meadow  with 
guard-houses  erected  on  piles,  that  the  guards  on  watch  may 
not  be  washed  away  when  the  Danube  rises.  To  the  right, 
Semlin,  a  regular  provincial  town.  Toward  the  east,  the 
fortress  of  Belgrade,  with  its  white  minarets,  the  most  charac- 
teristic feature  in  the  aspect  of  the  East.  The  fortress,  with  its 
mosque,  stands  on  the  top  of  a  steep  rock,  and  round  about 
that  again  is  the  town  stretching  down  toward  the  Danube 
and  Sava,  and  inclosed  on  the  other  side  by  a  large  oak  wood. 
Belgrade  has  fourteen  mosques.  The  right  wing  of  the  town 
is  occupied  by  the  Turkish  part  of  the  inhabitants ;  the  centre 
and  left  part  by  the  Servians.  It  was  on  the  twenty-fifth  of 
February,  1839,  that  the  Servians  obtained  their  free  constitu- 
tion. The  Turks  have  now  only  the  fortress  ;  the  pasha  there 
is  like  a  commander  or  governor.  It  was  in  the  palace  gar- 
den here  that  the  noble  Greek  poet,  Rhigas,  was  shamefully 
executed.  He  was  the  Beranger  of  Greece,  and  in  the  then 
state  of  Greece,  a  poet  of  still  greater  mark  than  the  French- 
man. It  was  not  alone  by  his  songs  that  he  awoke  the  feeling 
of  freedom  amongst  the  people,  but  he  employed  his  means  in 
educating  young  Greeks.  He  had  them  sent  to  him  to  Venice, 
where  he  lived  as  a  merchant.  He  had  them  brought  up  to 
feel  what  their  father-land  had  been.  Greece  was  still  under 
Turkish  sway.  Rhigas  was  delivered  to  the  Turks,  who  com- 
manded him  to  be  sawn  in  two  alive  j  and  this  horrible 
execution  took  place  here  in  the  pasha's  palace  yard.  Six 
hundred  and  thirty  Servians  were  impaled  in  the  same  place 


FROM  DRENCOVA    TOSEMLIN.  313 

in  1815.  They  had  all  surrendered  on  the  promise  of  being 
pardoned.  One  of  these  unfortunate  beings  lived  until  the 
seventh  day  after  the  impalement.  The  Danube  swam  with 
dead  bodies  —  with  the  bodies  of  the  Servians.  The  Turks 
might  have  sung  in  mockery,  "It  is  beautiful  to  sit  by  the 
river  and  see  the  broken  weapons  of  thine  enemy  glide  past !  " 

Below,  where  the  Sava  falls  into  the  Danube,  stands  a 
decayed  tower,  Neboisce,  —  "  Be  without  fear !  "  The  bodies 
of  the  executed  were  thrown  from  an  aperture  in  its  walls  into 
the  Danube  In  this  tower,  in  the  deepest  dungeon,  into  which 
the  water  forces  its  way,  sat  the  noble  Prince  JefFram  Obreno- 
witsch,  brother  to  Prince  Milosch,  who  in  open  battle  com- 
pelled the  pasha  to  deliver  his  prisoner.  The  remembrances 
connected  with  the  place  awakened  thoughts  of  the  wood- 
demon  who  pressed  his  strong  legs  around  Prince  Agib's 
neck,  as  the  legend  informs  us.  At  the  sight  of  that  gloomy, 
ruinous  tower,  I  fancied  I  felt  the  clammy  walls  press  me  like 
the  wood-demon's  legs !  What  horrors  are  there  not  con- 
nected with  the  scene  which  now  lay  before  me  in  the  bright 
est  sunshine,  with  fresh  green  trees,  sunlit  minarets,  cupolas, 
and  red-roofed  houses ! 

Servia's  first  deliverer,  Black  George,  fled  through  that  dark 
oak  forest,  by  the  river  Sava ;  this  wood  and  this  river  were 
the  scene  of  one  of  those  tragic  combats  that  live,  and  will 
live  in  the  people's  songs.  Black  George  fled  with  his  old 
father,  the  herdsman  Petroni ;  they  already  saw  the  river  Sava 
and  the  borders  of  Austria,  and  the  father  was  filled  with  the 
anguish  of  leaving  his  father-land.  He  begged  his  son  to  sur- 
render himself,  that  they  might  die  together  on  their  native 
soil ;  and  George  wavered  between  filial  obedience  and  the 
love  of  freedom ;  the  first  was  about  to  gain  the  mastery,  when 
the  shouts  of  the  Bosnians  and  Turks  resounded  through  the 
forest.  The  son  prepared  to  lift  his  father  on  his  shoulders, 
and  swim  with  him  across  the  river ;  but  the  old  man  would 
not  leave  that  land  to  which  the  memories  of  his  life  were 
bound  ;  he  would  rather  be  hewed  down  by  the  wild  hordes  ! 
The  son  then,  begged  his  father's  blessing,  and  the  old  man 
Destowed  it  upon  him,  opened  his  mantle,  and  bared  his 
breast.  The  son  shot  his  bullet  into  his  father's  heart,  cast 


314  ^  POETS  BAZAAR. 

the  body  into  the  Sava,  and  then  swam  over  the  river  himself. 
It  was  as  though  the  waves  still  told  me  about  it ;  and  the 
dark  oak  forest  nodded,  saying :  "  Yes,  so  it  was."  Screaming 
birds  flew  out  of  the  open  black  holes  in  the  tower  from 
whence  the  bodies  of  the  Servians  had  been  thrown  ;  thus  do 
birds  of  prey  flutter  around  a  place  of  execution. 

Between  the  Austrian  town  Semlin  and  the  river  Savatheie 
is  a  meadow,  stretching  out  directly  before  Belgrade,  in  which 
there  is  held  a  sort  of  market ;  two  rows  of  palisades  near 
each  other  separate  the  buyers  from  the  sellers  ;  the  Austrian 
watch,  and  the  military  officials,  pass  along  this  long  narrow 
way,  and  observe  that  no  contact  takes  place  ;  that  the  Turk- 
ish goods  come  into  quarantine,  and  that  the  money  is  first 
washed  in  vinegar  before  it  is  taken  on  the  Austrian  frontier. 
There  is  a  shouting  and  gesticulating  between  the  different 
people  to  make  themselves  understood  by  each  other ;  the 
wares  are  spread  out,  turned,  and  tumbled  about.  Swine, 
horses,  —  in  short,  all  kinds  of  cattle  are  driven  into  the  river. 
When  they  have  been  well  washed  in  it,  they  are  considered 
as  being  free  from  contagion ;  the  whip  cracks,  the  horn 
sounds,  and  the  shy  animals  run  in  amongst  the  Turks,  and 
must  then  out  again  into  the  bath. 

Two  Greek  priests,  with  dark-blue  mantles  down  to  theii 
ankles,  small  hats,  and  large  beards,  sat  lounging  the  whole 
afternoon  under  the  poplars  by  the  Danube,  and  looked  at  our 
vessel.  Toward  evening  the  chief  persons  of  the  good  city  of 
Semlin  came  on  board  ;  they  greeted  each  other,  as  we  could 
see,  according  to  rank  ;  some  got  a  whole  bushel  of  compli- 
ments, they  were  the  very  tip-top  inhabitants  ;  others  got 
gracious  compliments  by  the  drachm  ;  it  was  quite  ridiculous 
to  see.  I  thought  I  was  at  home  !  How  mankind  resemble 
each  other  everywhere. 

Something  more  novel  was  the  sight  here  of  the  long  row 
of  river  vessels ;  every  one  of  them  looked  like  a  Noah's  ark. 
They  were  long,  very  narrow,  and  with  a  house  (for  they  are 
floating  houses)  that  was  large  enough  to  form  a  whole  street 
They  were  all  painted  over  in  various  colors  ;  on  one  stood  a 
glowing  red  lion  on  each  side  of  the  door ;  on  another,  grass- 
green  dragons,  with  gold  crowns  on  their  heads  ;  most  of  the 


FROM  SEMLIN  TO  MO H ACS.  315 

others  had  pictures  of  saints.  The  way  in  which  they  ma- 
neuvered to  get  up  against  the  stream  was  this  ;  not  less  than 
twenty-one  men,  one  behind  the  other,  took  their  places  on 
the  roof,  which  extended  over  the  whole  vessel.  They  hauled 
in  a  rope,  bound  fast  to  an  anchor  placed  at  a  great  distance 
up  in  the  middle  of  the  stream  ;  they  get  forward,  but  at  a 
snail's  pace.  A  thunder-cloud  stood  over  the  plains  of  Hun- 
gary ;  the  rain  poured  down  over  the  homeward-bound  Sem- 
liners,  both  over  number  one  in  rank,  and  over  numbers  two, 
three,  four  —  as  many  as  you  please.  Such  a  stupid  cloud 
does  not  know  the  distinction  due  to  persons  ;  it  drenches 
high  and  low  !  After  rain  comes  sunshine  ;  everything  shone 
again  in  the  setting  sun,  the  Danube's  and  Sava's  waves,  and 
Belgrade's  minarets.  Here  the  Servian  Dryads  bade  me  their 
last  farewell ;  here  I  heard  the  last  cry  at  night  from  the 
dwellers  on  the  minarets.  When  I  again  come  upon  deck  to- 
morrow, there  will  be  nothing  on  the  shore  to  remind  me  of 
the  East !  Here  I  see  the  last  minaret. 


X. 

FROM    SEMLIN    TO    MOHACS. 

THE  day  broke,  and  we  still  lay  outside  Semlin  ;  the  whole 
district  around  was  enveloped  in  thick  mist ;  the  Captain 
durst  not  venture  to  sail  up  that  tortuous  river.  The  wind 
blew,  the  mist  became  more  transparent ;  the  vessel  was  set 
in  motion,  we  passed  green  meadows  and  yellow  cliffs.  A 
number  of  new  passengers  had  come  on  board  on  the  previous 
evening.  They  came  up  from  the  cabin  one  after  another  ; 
one  with  his  coffee-cup,  another  with  his  hand-book,  or  a 
paper,  on  which  the  events  of  the  day  were  to  be  noted  down. 
A  few  government  officers  carried  on  a  conversation  in  Latin, 
from  which  we  knew  we  were  in  Hungary ;  an  ecclesiastic, 
who  heard  that  I  was  Danish,  began  a  conversation  with  me 
about  Tycho  Brahe,  Schumacher,  and  H.  C.  Orsted  ;  the  man 
was  very  eloquent,  had  travelled  much,  and  knew  the  particu- 
lars about  most  places  and  things.  He  was  an  astronomer, 
and  his  name,  Wartan  Josephl. 


316  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

It  comes  pleasantly  home  to  a  man's  feelings  to  hear,  so  far 
from  his  father-land,  its,  or  one  of  its  significant  names  that 
shed  a  lustre  over  his  country,  spoken  of  with  admiration  and 
affection  ;  the  invisible  roots  of  the  soul  that  hold  us  to  our 
home's  soil  are  touched  in  a  strange  manner  :  we  become  at 
once  glad  and  sorrowful.  The  stranger  spoke  particularly 
about  Orsted,  and  the  cordial  words  sounded  like  music  to 
my  ear ;  and  the  fertile  green  meadow  I  looked  upon  re- 
minded me  of  summer-Denmark.  My  heart  was  told  of  my 
father-land  through  ear  and  eye. 

Before  us  lay  Karlowitz,  with  the  church  of  Maria- Fried  :  at 
a  distance  it  reminded  me  of  Rosenberg  Palace,  in  Copenha- 
gen :  I  knew  these  towers  and  spires,  I  knew  these  fields,  and 
the  green  trees.  On  the  following  day's  voyage  it  became  a 
certainty  to  me  that  Hungary  —  at  least,  near  the  Danube 
—  has  quite  a  Danish  character.  If  we  travel  on  the  high- 
road between  Karlowitz  and  Peterwardein,  then  the  distance 
between  both  these  places  is  only  a  walk ;  on  the  contrary,  if 
we  go  up  the  river  it  is  a  little  voyage,  as  the  Danube  makes 
one  of  its  most  considerable  windings  here. 

Peterwardein,  the  strongest  fortress  of  Austria,  does  not 
appear  very  large,  and  has  nothing  of  the  imposing  effect  of 
Ehrenbreitstein.  On  our  voyage  up  the  river,  it  looked  like  a 
fortress  in  aflat  country;  its  outworks  appeared  to  be  walli-d 
terraces,  the  one  higher  than  the  other,  behind  which  lay 
long,  barrack-like  buildings.  When  we  came  to  the  opposite 
side  of  the  fortress,  toward  the  hamlet  of  Neusats,1  it  offered 
something  of  a  nobler  and  more  picturesque  character ;  the 
foundation  was  on  a  rock  ;  it  rose  on  large  masses  of  granite. 

All  the  good  folks  of  Neusats  were  out  in  the  street,  under 
the  green  trees,  to  look  at  the  steam-vessel ;  three  large  heaps 
of  goods  lay  on  the  shore  ;  people  took  leave  of  and  k  ; 
each  other,  and  the  mother  fastened  the  cloak  a  little  closer 
around  the  daughter  who  was  going  away ;  a  cavalier  held  the 
parasol  whilst  two  ladies  embraced  each  other  :  we  had  a  con- 
siderable accession  of  company  on  board. 

1  In  1738,  Neusats  was  a  fishing  village,  now  it  is  a  town  of  considerable 
importance  ;  between  Neusats  and  Peterwardein  is  the  first  bridge  acroM 
the  Danube  :  it  is  a  bridge  of  boats. 


PROM  SEMLIN  TO  MO H ACS.  317 

We  sailed  in  between  two  green  fruitful  mountains,  and  met 
two  boats  rilled  to  repletion  ;  there  were  above  a  hundred  per- 
sons in  each  ;  those  on  board  said  that  they  were  returning 
from  a  pilgrimage  :  they  sang  and  rejoiced.  It  often  happens 
in  dark  and  bad  weather  that  such  boats  meet  with  accidents. 
Whilst  we  were  speaking  about  it,  a  thunder-cloud  rolled  like 
an  avalanche  between  the  mountains  ;  a  shower  came  over  us  ; 
the  Danube  swelled  as  if  its  Naiads  had  become  angry  be- 
cause they  were  bearing  the  pious  men  who  had  come  from 
the  pilgrimage.  We  shot  forward  rapidly.  One  little  town 
peeped  forth  after  another  between  the  green  trees.  Small 
floating  colonies  lay  on  the  Danube  ;  every  house  was  a  water- 
mill  ;  the  wheel  went  round,  the  miller's  men  hung  on  each 
other's  backs  by  the  open  shutter-windows  to  see  our  vessel, 
and  the  strangers  in  it.  The  mirth  of  an  "Eulenspiegel"  began 
here,  and  was  continued  right  up  to  Pesth.  The  Hungarians 
take  their  hats  off  at  every  water-mill  they  come  to,  put  it  un- 
der their  arm,  and  grind  round  with  the  other  hand,  which 
signifies  that  the  millers  grind  for  their  own  hats,  or,  in  other 
words,  what  we  call  —  steal  ;  here,  as  everywhere  else,  the 
jest  against  the  millers  was  understood  and  answered,  as  poor 
Eulenspiegel  would  have  answered  it :  but  I  need  not  enter 
into  particulars. 

We  lay  for  a  short  time  outside  Illok,  an  old  town  which  was 
almost  hidden  by  a  thick,  bush-grown  cliff;  the  fortress  is  com- 
pletely destroyed  ;  a  Franciscan  monastery  extends  very  pic- 
tuiesquely  along  the  summit ;  this  was  the  most  considerable 
we  had  yet  seen  on  our  voyage  up  the  Danube.  A  new  palace 
was  building  for  the  princely  family  of  Odaskalki. 

What  a  beautiful,  picturesque  scene  the  face  of  nature  here 
presents !  When  in  a  few  years  the  Danube  gets  its  pano- 
ramic views  like  the  Rhine,  Illok  will  then  be  one  of  the 
places  where  the  beholder  will  wish  to  wander  between  the 
green  woods  under  the  ivy-covered  walls  of  the  monastery ; 
but  he  will  not  do  so  ;  he  will  have  but  the  prospect ;  nor  did 
we  in  reality  get  more  —  we  were  all  on  board,  and  sailed  for- 
ward on  our  way. 

At  sunset  we  reached  Yucovar :  here  and  in  Borova,  where 
we  arrived  in  the  night  there  came  new  passengers;  the 


318  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

number  increased  in  the  morning  when  we  lay  before  Dalja. 
People  streamed  to  the  great  Medardus  fair  from  all  parts  ; 
every  sleeping  place  in  the  vessel  was  taken,  and  we  had  still 
a  three  days'  voyage  before  we  reached  the  end  of  our  journey  ; 
we  had  yet  to  pass  Apatin,  Mohacs,  Baja,  Tolna,  Paks,  Fold- 
var,  and  Ersceny  ;  seven  towns,  where  we  might  expect  new 
guests  from  each,  and  all  were  to  go  by  our  vessel. 

At  Erdod  lies  a  ruin  on  a  high  cliff;  it  is  equally  as  pictur- 
esque as  the  legend  connected  with  it  is  original.1  A  young 
nobleman  of  the  house  of  Erdod  lifted  his  hand  against  his 
father,  struck  him  in  the  face,  and  the  old  man  cursed  his  son  ; 
a  flaming  red  mark,  like  that  of  Cain,  appeared  on  the  son's 
brow;  it  burnt — it  drove  him  away  up  toward  the  cold 
North,  through  marsh  and  forest,  over  mountains  and  seas,  to 
ice  and  snow.  All  turned  away  from  him  wherever  he  came ; 
the  mark  burnt  and  burnt.  He  turned  toward  the  South,  to 
the  merry  lively  people  ;  but  they  feared  Cain,  they  turned 
from  him.  Then  despair  came  on  his  heart  —  he  knew  not 
where  he  went.  A  river  rushed  under  the  precipice  where  he 
stood,  a  knight's  castle  lay  there,  illumined  by  the  sinking  sun  ; 
he  knew  its  towers,  its  spires,  and  the  venerable  man,  who, 
leaning  on  his  jdger  passed  over  the  draw-bridge  ;  he  threw 
himself  at  the  old  man's  feet,  and  with  the  father's  blessing 
the  burning  mark  vanished  from  his  brow. 

Our  last  guests  were  highly  characteristic  —  real  country 
nobles  ;  all  in  parti-colored  jackets  of  light  red  or  light  blue 
striped  linen  ;  they  all  had  bare  necks  and  short  beards  ; 
these  were  to  represent  innocence  and  strength.  They  had 
caps  with  the  Hungarian  national  color,  green,  yellow,  and 
red,  the  one  little  triangular  patch  sewed  by  the  side  of  the 
other.  They  all  wore  mustaches  ending  on  each  side  like  a 
little  ram's  horn.  A  young,  yellow-visaged  Jew  made  him- 
self very  conspicuous  by  them ;  he  had  them  so  small  that 
they  looked  like  three  hairs  well  plastered  with  pomatum  :  we 
could  see  that  in  his  family's,  and  in  his  own  opinion,  he  was 
a  very  fine  gentleman.  He  was  a  real  Hungarian  idler ! 

1 1  give  the  legend  as  it  was  verbally  related  to  me  on  the  spot ;  it 
founds,  however,  somewhat  different  in  Mednyanszky's  Erzdhlungen,  Sagtn 
*nd  Legenden  aus  Ungarn*  Vorzeit. 


THE  SWINEHERD.  319 

In  the  afternoon  we  reached  Mohacs,  where  we  were  to  re- 
main until  the  next  morning.  The  plain  near  this  town  has  a 
sort  of  fame  from  the  battle  between  Louis  II.  of  Hungary 
and  Solyman  the  Magnificent ;  it  is  immortalized  in  a  painting 
belonging  to  the  Bishop's  residence  outside  the  town.  I 
was  with  the  rest  on  the  way  thither,  but  turned  back.  I 
did  not  care  to  go  so  far.  I  directed  my  steps  to  a  barber  s, 
for  I  was  prosaically  inclined,  and  one  becomes  so  on  a  voy- 
age ;  yet  I  must  confess  that  I  was  extremely  sorry  I  had  not 
seen  the  picture,  of  which  the  other  passengers  spoke  highly. 
But  is  it  not  true,  that  we  cannot  see  everything  ?  I  looked 
at  another  picture  in  the  house  of  the  poor  barber  ;  there  hung 
a  genuine  Hungarian  piece,  of  the  kind  one  buys  for  a  penny. 
On  a  sheet  of  paper,  two  praying  angels  hovered  in  the  air, 
and  under  them  were  two  clasped  hands  with  the  inscription  : 
"  For  our  friends  !  "  by  the  side  of  these  were  two  strong  fists, 
and  here  was  written  :  "Against  our  enemies  !  " 

This  was  also  a  picture,  and  perhaps  more  characteristic  of 
Hungary  than  the  painting  I  should  have  seen  in  the  Bishop's 
mansion,  where  I  did  not  care  to  go. 

I  was  tired,  fatigued,  and  weary  of  the  voyage  ;  and  that  is 
the  truth. 


XL 

THE  SWINEHERD. 

OUTSIDE  that  clay  and  straw-plastered  hut  sits  an  old  swine- 
herd, —  a  real  Hungarian,  consequently  a  nobleman.  He  has 
often  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart  and  said  so  to  himself.  The 
sun  burns  hot,  therefore  he  has  turned  the  woolly  side  of  his 
sheepskin  cloak  outward  ;  his  silvery  white  hair  hangs  down 
his  characteristically  brown  face ;  he  has  got  a  new  piece  of 
linen,  a  shirt,  and  he  manages  it  in  his  way  ;  rubs  it  in  with 
bacon  ;  then  it  keeps  longer  clean,  then  it  can  be  turned  and 
turned  again.  His  grandson,  a  florid  complexioned  lad,  with 
his  long,  black  hair  shining  with  the  same  sort  of  pomatum  as 
the  old  man  uses  to  his  linen,  stands  close  by,  leaning  on  a 
staff ;  a  long  leather  bag  hangs  over  his  shoulder.  He  is  also 


32O  A   POETS  BAZAAR. 

a  swineherd,  and  is  going  this  evening  on  board  a  vessel 
which,  towed  by  the  steamer  Eros,  carries  a  large  cargo  of 
swine  to  the  capital. 

"  In  five  days  you  will  be  there,"  says  the  man  ;  "  when  I 
was  a  lad  like  thee,  we  took  six  weeks  to  it !  We  went  step 
by  step,  through  marshy  ways,  through  woods  and  over  rocks ; 
swine  that  in  the  first  few  days  were  so  fat  that  some  of  them 
burst  on  the  march,  became  thin  and  miserable  before  we 
came  to  the  place.  Now  the  world  goes  forward !  Every- 
thing becomes  easier." 

"  We  can  smoke  our  pipes,"  says  the  young  one,  "  lie  in  our 
skin  cloaks  in  the  warm  sun  ;  towns  and  meadows  glide  past 
us  ;  the  swine  fly  too,  and  become  fat  on  the  way.  That  is  a 
gentleman's  life ! " 

"  Every  one  has  his,"  says  the  old  one  ;  "  I  had  mine. 
There  is  mirth  in  adventure.  When  I  saw  the  gypsies  boiling 
and  roasting  in  the  wood,  I  was  obliged  to  be  on  the  lookout 
that  my  best  swine  did  not  get  into  the  pot.  I  have  seen 
many  a  merry  hour  ;  I  had  to  think,  to  turn  myself,  and,  now 
and  then,  to  use  my  fists.  On  the  plain  between  the  rocks, 
where,  you  know,  the  winds  are  shut  in,  I  drove  my  herd  :  I 
drove  it  over  the  field  where  the  invisible  palace  of  the  winds 
is  erected.  One  saw  neither  house  nor  roof;  the  palace  of 
the  winds  can  only  be  felt !  I  drove  the  herd  through  all  the 
invisible  rooms  and  saloons  ;  I  observed  it  full  well ;  the  wall 
was  storm,  the  door  whirlwind  !  It  is  worth  while  having  tried 
such  things ;  it  gives  one  something  to  talk  about.  What 
have  you,  who  bask  in  sunshine  on  the  large  swimming  pigsty, 
to  relate  ? " 

And  as  the  old  man  talks,  he  rubs  his  new  piece  of  linen 
very  eagerly. 

"  Go  with  me  to  the  Danube,"  says  the  young  ofie  ;  "  there 
you  shall  see  a  huddle  of  swine  so  fat,  that  they  appear  as 
though  each  and  all  would  burst.  They  will  not  go  into  the 
vessel,  we  drive  them  with  sticks  ;  they  squeeze  themselves 
together,  place  themselves  across,  stretch  themselves  on  the 
ground,  crawl  on  each  other's  backs,  however  heavy  they  may 
be.  That  is  a  huddle  worth  seeing.  You  will  laugh  till  you 
shake  again.  There  is  a  squealing  —  all  the  musicians  ir 


FAIR   GUESTS.  321 

Hungary  could  not  get  such  tones  out  of  their  bagpipes,  if 
they  were  to  squeeze  them  ever  so  hard.  Now  your  shirt 
shines  so  well  with  the  fat  pork  that  you  cannot  make  it  look 
better.  Go  with  me  to  the  Danube  ;  I  will  give  you  something 
to  drink,  old  father.  In  four  days  I  shall  be  in  the  capital ;  I 
shall  see  luxury  and  splendor ;  I  will  buy  thee  a  pair  of  red 
trousers  and  plated  spurs." 

And  the  old  swineherd  lifts  his  head  proudly,  looks  with 
glistening  eyes  on  the  young  Magyar,  hangs  his  shirt  up  on  a 
hook  in  the  low  clay  cabin,  where  there  is  only  a  bench,  table, 
and  wooden  chest :  he  nods  his  head,  and  mutters,  "  Nemes- 
ember  van,  nemes-ember  en  es  vagyok  /"* 


XII. 

FAIR   GUESTS. 

WE  leave  Mohacs.  Our  vessel  was  quite  filled  with  pas- 
sengers ;  we  were  above  three  hundred,  and  many  more  were 
expected  before  we  reached  Pesth.  Chests,  sacks,  bundles, 
and  packages  lay  heaped  up  as  high  as  the  boxes  of  the  pad- 
dle-wheels, and  round  about,  on  deck  and  under  the  deck, 
people  tried  to  get  a  place,  if  not  to  sit,  at  least  to  stand.  A 
Turkish  Jew  who  had  come  down  from  Semlin  had  the  best 
of  it ;  he  continued  to  keep  the  place  he  had  first  taken  ;  he 
sat  on  a  carpet  he  had  spread  out,  and  held  a  large  keg  of 
wine  between  his  legs.  Every  moment  he  drank  a  toast, 
nodded  and  sang,  crowed  like  a  cock,  and  sighed  like  a 
maiden ;  he  was  the  pantaloon  for  the  whole  company,  and 
merry  enough  he  was.  A  heiduk,  or  foot-soldier,  in  red  trou- 
sers and  large  white  cloak,  stood  unmoved  from  morning  till 
evening,  with  his  back  against  the  captain's  cabin,  and 
smoked  his  pipe.  Some  old  Jews  read  aloud  to  themselves 
out  of  their  Hebrew  Bibles.  Two  or  three  families  sat  on 
some  piled-up  bundles,  and  ate  bread  and  onions,  as  well  as 
played  a  game  of  cards  or  idled  away  the  time.  A  young 
militaire  paid  continual  court  to  a  girl,  whilst  two  other  offi 

1  "  He  is  a  nobleman  ;  I  also  am  a  nobleman  1 " 
21 


322  A  POET'S  BAZAAR. 

cers  jested  with  the  little  Armenian  boy  Antonius,  and,  to  th« 
great  dismay  of  Pater  Adam,  told  him  that  it  was  not  good  to 
be  a  monk !  They  showed  him  their  sabres,  pointed  to  their 
mustaches,  set  their  parti-colored  caps  on  his  head.  The  boy 
smiled,  and  Pater  Adam  shook  his  head.  There  was  a  merri- 
ment, a  screaming,  a  humming,  and  buzzing,  both  above  and 
below.  "  Mein  parapleem  !  paraplecm  I "  screamed  a  Jew  who 
had  lost  his  umbrella.  " Felix  faustumquc  sit!"  shouted  a 
black  dressed  Oskolamestre,  who  met  his  colleague  !  The 
poor  damsel  who  had  come  with  us  from  Constantinople  gave 
herself  up  to  tears  on  account  of  the  great  mass  of  people,  and, 
as  she  said,  "the  horrible  company  in  the  second  cabin." 
One  might  laugh  or  cry  at  it.  Everything  below  was  envel- 
oped in  tobacco  smoke.  People  stood  upon  each  other,  but 
there  were  also  many  who  sat,  and  that  not  only  on  the 
benches,  but  on  the  ends  and  sides  of  the  tables:  they  sat 
there  all  day  that  they  might  have  a  sitting  place  at  night 
Two  young  wives  of  the  Jewish  faith  stood  in  the  midst  of  the 
throng,  with  their  arms  around  each  other's  waists,  and  smelt 
of  a  citron. 

There  was  not  much  better  accommodation  in  the  first  cabin, 
only  that  there  we  were  free  from  tobacco-smoke.  The  gen- 
tlemen sat  unceremoniously  amongst  the  ladies,  and  played 
makan,  a  very  high  game  at  hazard.  A  Semlin  trader,  in  a 
green  jerkin,  and  with  a  black  felt  hat,  which  he  never  took 
off,  even  while  he  slept,  had  already  played  watch  and  money 
away.  Champagne  corks  flew  about ;  there  was  a  smell  of 
beefsteaks !  —  and  in  the  evening  it  was  worse  still ;  they  had 
to  sleep  on  tables  and  benches,  nay,  under  the  tables  and 
benches,  even  in  the  cabin  windows  ;  some  lay  in  their  clothes, 
others  made  themselves  comfortable,  and  imagined  that  they 
were  going  to  their  own  good  beds  at  home. 

The  ladies'  cabins  were  equally  overfilled ;  a  few  of  the  eldest 
took  courage,  and  a  manly  heart,  as  we  call  it,  and  sat  down 
within  the  door  of  our  cabin  with  us  !  Others  took  up  their 
place  on  the  steps,  the  one  over  the  other.  The  whole  deck 
was  one  large  bed,  and  here  they  went  to  rest  with  the  sun. 
One  could  not  take  a  step  without  treading  on  them  !  Here 
was  a  murmuring,  a  sighing,  a  snoring  —  and  we  had  this  foi 


PESTH  AND   OPEN.  323 

two  nights  !  One  quite  forgot  the  poetry  of  nature  for  every-day 
life.  New  fruitful  districts,  vine-hills,  and  large  villages  with 
new  and  light  churches  met  our  view  as  we  darted  past.  At 
length,  on  the  third  morning  after  our  departure  from  Mohacs, 
the  Hungarian  flag1  was  hoisted,  Pesth  lay  before  us  in 
airy  mist !  Ofen  was  hidden  by  the  high  mountain  of  St. 
Gerhard,2  where  a  flag  was  hoisted  on  the  summit  of  the  tower 
to  greet  the  steamer  which  brought  the  fair  guests. 


XIII. 

PESTH   AND   OFEN. 

HERE  is  a  prospect !  But  how  shall  one  paint  it  with 
words,  — and  the  sunlight  in  which  it  appears.  The  buildings 
along  the  shores  of  the  river  in  Pesth  seem  to  be  a  row  of 
palaces ;  what  life  and  bustle  !  Hungarian  dandies,  trades- 
men, both  Jews  and  Greeks,  soldiers  and  peasants,  force  their 
way  amongst  each  other.  It  is  the  fair  of  St.  Medardus. 
Less,  but  variegated  houses  extend  along  the  opposite  shore 
of  the  river  under  the  high  grass-green  mountains  ;  a  few  rows 
lie  in  ranks  on  the  mountain  side.  That  is  Ofen,  the  capital 
of  Hungary;  the  fortress,  the  Hungarian  Acropolis,  lifts  its 
white  walls  above  the  green  gardens. 

A  bridge  of  boats  unites  the  two  towns.  What  a  throng 
and  tumult !  The  bridge  rocks  as  the  carriages  pass  over  it. 
Soldiers  march  ;  bayonets  glitter  in  the  sun  ;  a  procession  of 
peasants  sets  out  on  a  pilgrimage.  Now,  they  are  on  the  mid- 
dle of  the  bridge,  the  cross  twinkles,  the  song  reaches  us.  The 
river  itself  is  half-filled  with  ships  and  small  vessels.  Hearken 
to  the  music !  A  crowd  of  boats  are  rowed  up  against  the 

1  The  Hungarian  flag  has  a  red  stripe  at  the  top,  a  green  one  at  the 
bottom,  and  in  the  middle  a  white.     In  the  right  field  are  the  rivers  Drave, 
Save,  and  Theiss  ;  in  the  left  field  three  mountains,  Tatra,  Fatra,  and  Matra ; 
and  above  the  field  is  a  crown,  the  cross  of  which  is  bent  as  in  the  real  Hun- 
garian royal  crown,  which  was  a  gift  from  Pope  Sylvester  to  Stephen  the 
Holy.     None  but  those  who  have  worn  it,  are  entitled  Kings  of  Hungary. 

2  The  heathens  threw  the  holy  St.  Gerhard  from  this  place  into  the 
Danube. 


324  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

stream  ;  the  Hungarian  flag  waves  by  dozens  from  every  boat  j 
the  whole  shore  is  filled  with  people.  What  kind  of  proces 
sion  is  it  ?  All  the  persons  in  the  boats  are  nearly  naked,  but 
with  tri-colored  caps  on.  The  music  clangs,  the  flags  wave, 
the  oars  splash !  What  does  it  all  signify  ?  I  ask  a  young 
lady,  who  is  also  looking  at  this  merriment,  and  she  explains 
to  me  that  it  is  the  military  swimming  school.  Officers  and 
cadets  all  swim,  as  for  a  wager,  down  with  the  stream  to  St. 
Gerhard's  mount ;  but  it  is  impossible  to  swim  back,  and 
therefore  they  row  in  boats,  with  flags  and  music.  It  has  a 
gay  appearance,  and  it  is  characteristic  !  All  is  exultation  — 
all  is  festivity  —  the  church  bells  ring.  It  is  Whitsunday  ! 

We  go  on  shore,  we  seek  for  a  hotel.  It  is  large  and 
splendid  ;  and  it  is  shamefully  dear !  There  is  no  tax  here 
during  the  fair  time.  We  wander  about  in  Pesth  ;  but  it  is 
Vienna,  —  at  least,  a  part  of  Vienna.  The  same  shops  ;  the 
same  diversified,  well-painted  signs,  with  portraits  and  alle- 
gories. One  feels  a  desire  to  stand  still.  See  there,  on  the 
coffee-house,  in  gilt  letters  :  "  Kave-hbs ; "  and,  underneath,  is 
a  picture,  which  shows  "the  heavenly  coffee-well."  Angels 
sit  down  to  table  here,  and  drink  coffee  ;  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  fetches  it  from  the  fountain,  where  it  streams  forth, 
quite  dark-brown,  amongst  the  flowers.  In  one  of  the  streets 
here,  is  a  "  Stock-am  Eisen"  just  as  in  Vienna  ;  the  last  rem- 
nant of  the  primitive  forest  by  the  Danube.  Here  every  trav- 
elling workman  struck  his  nail  into  the  tree,  as  long  as  there 
was  a  spot  where  it  could  be  driven  in  ;  and  the  tree  became 
an  iron  tree,  a  tree  of  nails  !  Hercules  himself  had  not  such 
a  club. 

Not  a  trace  is  now  to  be  seen  of  the  overflowing  of  the  Dan- 
ube ;  every  house  is  erected  again  ;  everything  is  newer  and 
more  splendid.1 

Ofen  has  one  theatre,  Pesth  two  :  the  one,  and  the  least  of 
them,  is  the  national  theatre,  where  they  only  perform  plays 
in  the  Hungarian  language.  Here  are  good  actors  and  good 
music  ;  and  the  house  is,  as  they  told  me,  always  well  fre- 

1  In  1838,  there  was  a  dreadful  inundation  here.  The  water  rose  twenty, 
nine  feet  four  inches  above  the  usual  level.  Many  persons  perished  ;  cat- 
tle were  drowned,  and  houses  fell  down. 


PESTH  AND   OPEN.  325 

quented.  This  building  is  also  used  as  a  concert  saloon.  I 
heard  Mendelssohn-Bartholdy's  oratorio  of  "  Saint  Paul,"  in  a 
Hungarian  translation,  or,  as  it  is  called  in  Hungarian  abbre- 
viation, "  Pal."  The  Royal  Theatre  is  large  and  handsome,  but 
badly  lighted.  Emil  Devrient,  from  Saxony,  so  celebrated  in 
Germany,  was  here  during  my  stay,  and  performed  Sancho, 
in  Raupach's  "  Die  Konigsstochter  ein  Bettlerweib,"  ami 
jBolingbroke,  in  Scribe's  "  Un  Verre  d'Eau."  There  was  na 
ture  and  truth  in  this  artist's  playing ;  he  shone  like  a  star  of 
the  first  magnitude  amongst  these  lesser  ones.  However,  there 
were  several  that  one  could  observe  were  public  favorites,  —  a 

Madame  ,  in  particular,  who  appeared  to  me  to  have  a 

high  degree  of  mannerism  ;  but  the  worse  the  lady  performed, 
the  more  did  the  people  applaud. 

The  "National  Casino/'  where  I  was  introduced,  is  very 
large  ;  and,  with  respect  to  books  and  newspapers,  extremely 
well  supplied.  What  interests  the  stranger  most  here,  is  the 
number  of  different  journals  and  periodicals  in  the  language 
of  the  country.  As  the  most  read,  and  most  important  Hun- 
garian poet,  may  be  mentioned  Josika,  who  has  written  many 
novels.  One  of  these,  "  The  Bohemians  in  Hungary,"  is  much 
praised.  The  question  was  put  to  me,  —  if  any  Hungarian 
work  had  been  translated  into  Danish  ?  and  I  could  only  an- 
swer that  I  knew  but  one,  "  Szechenyi  on  Horse-racing," 
and  added  that  it  had  been  just  translated  by  one  of  my  dear- 
est Danish  friends.  The  Hungarians  spoke  with  great  enthu- 
siasm of  Szechenyi  and  his  many  services  to  Hungary.  As 
the  most  interesting  of  his  works,  they  named  "  Der  Credit." 

Szechenyi's  portrait  was  to  be  seen  in  all  the  book-sellers' 
shops,  and  it  ornamented  our  cabin  in  the  steamer,  which  car- 
ried us  higher  up  the  Danube.  Yet,  before  we  sail  again,  let 
us  take  a  little  trip  to  the  other  side  of  Ofen,  to  Gul-Baba's 
grave,  by  the  "  Imperial  Bath."  We  bring  a  greeting  from  the 
East  to  the  Turkish  saint ;  we  bring  it  from  old  Stamboul, 
from  Mohammed's  green  flag  !  Who  is  he  within  there,  that 
lies  stretched  out  on  his  face,  a  white  felt  hat  without  brim 
around  his  brow  ?  Did  I  not  see  him  in  the  whirling  dance, 
amongst  the  Mewlewis  in  Pera  ?  It  is  a  dervise  !  He  has  wan- 
dered hither  on  foot,  over  mountains,  through  desert  wastes,  to  a 


326  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

strange  people,  to  the  Christians'  city !  His  pilgrimage  is  ended. 
As  a  memento  thereof,  he  hangs  a  parti-colored  wooden  sword 
on  the  wall,  casts  himself  on  his  face,  and  mutters,  "There 
is  no  God  but  God,  and  Mohammed  is  his  prophet !  " 

It  is  evening !  the  sun  sinks  red  and  large  !  The  son  of  the 
East  wanders  silently  from  the  grave  to  the  high  fortress.  He 
has  sought  out  the  most  solitary  way,  the  most  remote  bastion  ; 
he  bends  his  head,  and  says  another  prayer.  The  common 
man  stands  at  a  distance ;  stares  after  the  foreign  wanderer, 
and  has  his  own  thoughts  !  There  is,  as  he  knows,  no  peace 
at  night  in  this  place.  An  hour  before  midnight,  the  gigantic 
figure  of  an  unhappy  spirit,  a  Turk,  glides  about  here.  The 
figure  lifts  the  largest  of  the  cannons,  shoulders  it,  and  marches 
round  the  walls  with  it.  At  the  stroke  of  twelve,  it  lays  the 
cannon  down  in  its  place,  and  vanishes.  Will  the  living  figure 
exchange  words  here  with  the  dead  this  night  ?  It  is  still  on 
the  bastion,  and  still  in  the  little  tomb  where  Gul-Baba  sleeps. 


XIV. 

THE   DANUBE   FROM   PESTH   TO   VIENNA. 

THE  steamer  Maria  Anna  sails  early  in  the  morning  to  Vi- 
enna. We  go  on  board  ;  the  little  vessel  is  over-filled  with 
passengers.  It  goes  off  at  a  rapid  rate,  against  the  stream, 
past  the  bathing-houses,  where  the  palings  bend  under  the 
weight  of  half-naked  soldiers,  one  wrapped  in  a  sheet,  others 
in  shirts  ;  but  now  we  are  past ! 

Primitive  forests  once  extended  along  these  shores  ;  a  soli- 
tary hut,  of  earth  and  boughs,  stood  by  the  swelling  river. 
Waitz  was  the  name  of  its  pious  hermit ;  his  memory  now  lives 
only  in  the  name  of  the  town  which  greets  us  with  its  churches 
anc  promenades.  It  is  Waitzen.  The  legend  states  that  shortly 
before  the  battle  of  Mogyrrod,  the  Princes  Geisa  and  Ladislaus 
rode  through  the  forest  here  together.  They  spoke  of  the  order 
of  battle,  and  the  positions  of  the  armies,  when  Ladislaus  sud- 
denly cried  out, "  Did  you  not  see  something  ?  Whilst  we  spoke 
together,  an  angel  came  from  heaven,  and  held  a  crown  ovei 


FROM  PESTH  TO    VIENNA.  327 

your  head !  Now,  I  know  you  will  conquer ! "  And  Geisa 
swore  :  "  If  God  be  with  us,  and  thy  vision  be  fulfilled,  I  will 
build  a  church  on  this  spot !  "  The  enemy  fled  ;  and  here  by 
the  hermit's  cell,  in  the  dark  wood,  a  stag,  with  burning  antlers, 
started  suddenly  forth ;  the  warriors  shot  at  it,  the  stag  sprang 
into  the  Danube,  and  disappeared.  The  church  was  built  by 
the  side  of  Waitz's  cell ;  a  town  rose  round  about  it,  and  was 
called  Waitzen. 

Legends  and  reminiscences  are  connected  with  these  shores. 
Here  the  scene  varies  with  wood  and  rock,  with  green  fields 
and  populous  towns.  We  approach  a  ruin  ;  in  its  days  of 
power  it  was  once  the  most  fairy-like  palace  in  Europe.  Mat- 
thew Corvini  loved  this  place  :  at  his  command  the  floors  were 
spread  with  marble,  the  ceiling  shone  with  gold,  the  walls  with 
paintings  and  rich  drapery.  Every  window  told  a  legend  or  a 
heathenish  saga ;  birds  of  various  plumage  flew  about  in  here 
in  the  winter  time  amongst  the  palms  and  oranges  of  the 
South.  All  has  disappeared ;  the  fox  digs  his  hole  where 
proud  knights  danced  in  rows.  The  herdsman  drives  his  herd 
over  the  narrow  path  between  the  bushes,  where  artificial  foun- 
tains splashed  on  the  high  terraces.  The  poet  of  that  time  be- 
holding it,  thought  and  dreamed  of  Armida's  enchanted  garden. 
The  boat,  adorned  with  oriental  splendor,  was  loosened  here 
from  the  little  marble  haven  in  the  moonlight  summer  even- 
ings. The  music  sounded,  joyous  women  and  brave  men 
made  merry  sailing  trips,  and  rejoiced  in  the  evening,  and 
were  gladdened  by  the  grand  echo  which  answered  again  and 
again  from  Solomon's  tower,  by  the  river, —  a  building  six  stories 
in  height.  All  this  has  disappeared,  all  is  passed  ;  Echo  alone 
sits  here  yet  on  the  ruins,  and  replies  with  the  unchanged  voice 
of  youth ;  yet  one  name,  say  the  people,  it  does  not  repeat, 
and  that  is  of  the  traitor  Betdz,  who  betrayed  his  king. 

We  approached  Gran,  where  Stephen  the  Holy  was  born, 
and  where  he  now  rests  in  his  coffin.  In  the  midst  of  the 
ruined  fortress  on  the  cliff  a  church  is  building.  The  town 
itself  lies  flat,  between  green  trees ;  from  these  trees  a  number 
of  butterflies  flutter  over  the  Danube,  as  if  they  were  a  bevy 
of  sylphides,  of  which  we  only  saw  the  wings.  The  thought 
of  sylphides  and  the  name  of  the  town  leads  me  back  to  the 


328  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

Sylphide  of  the  North,  who  flew  from  the  Danish  scene  to  the 
world's  city,  Paris,  and  enchanted  even  that  critical  gentleman, 
Jules  Janin ;  then,  at  once  went  on  crutches  to  the  baths  of  the 
Pyrenees ;  sank  from  admiration  and  renown  to  suffering  and 
oblivion  !  I  forget  Stephen  the  Holy's  town  for  Lucile  —  for- 
get Gran  for  Grahn  ! 

Toward  evening  we  reached  Comorn  ;  new  passengers 
flocked  to  our  steamer.  It  was  now  so  full  that  each  of  us 
might  be  glad  if  we  got  a  place  to  sit  in  at  night ;  the  luxury 
of  stretching  one's  weary  limbs  at  full  length  was  too  much 
to  expect.  We  sat  side  by  side.  As  there  are  moving  sand 
banks  in  the  Danube  that  sometimes  lie  here  and  sometimes 
there,  we  naturally  ran  on  them  several  times.  One  passen- 
ger knocked  against  his  neighbor,  a  few  old  gentlemen  fell  on 
their  knees  to  the  floor,  and  the  refreshment  tables  danced  a 
mazurka. 

The  next  day's  voyage  offered  only  the  sight  of  flat  wood- 
grown  shores,  with  here  and  there  a  water-mill  or  a  village 
with  a  church.  We  now  lay  before  Presburg.  As  we  neared 
the  bridge,  a  "  Kellner  "  (cellar-man  or  butler)  threw  a  pack 
of  cards  into  the  river,  heaven  knows  why !  The  cards  sank 
down  deep  as  if  they  willingly  sought  the  bottom  ;  one 
in  particular,  but  it  came  up  again  —  it  was  the  Queen  of 
Hearts.  She  courtesied  three  times  very  deeply,  and  then  she 
sank.  This  was  our  gracious  welcome  to  Presburg.  Close  to 
the  place  where  we  landed  was  a  little  hill  with  a  walled  fence, 
whose  name  is  significant — it  is  "  Kronungs  Berg."  The 
joyous  Hungarians,  who  are  handsome,  very  handsome,  as- 
semble round  this  hill  on  the  day  of  the  King's  coronation  ; 
the  tri-colored  flag  then  waves  from  all  the  vessels  in  the 
river ;  the  cannons  thunder,  and  Hungary's  King  in  the  same 
dress,  and  with  the  same  crown  Stephen  the  Holy  wore,  rides 
up  this  hill,  and  from  its  summit,  with  his  sword  raised  against 
the  four  quarters  of  the  world,  swears  to  defend  and  maintain 
his  country.  Church-bells  and  trumpets,  the  cannons,  and 
people's  mouths  exultingly  shout  their  "  Long  life  to  the 
.  />rd's  anointed  !  " 

I  like  this  city  •  it  is  lively  and  motley.  The  shops  appear 
to  have  been  brought  from  Vienna  !  "  Yes,  here  is  much  t« 


FROM  PESTH  TO    VIENNA.  329 

see,"  says  the  burgher  ;  "go  with  me  to  the  ruins  of  the  pal- 
ace 01;  the  lofty  rock  by  the  Danube.  There  is  a  prospect 
over  the  floating  bridge,  over  towns,  and  corn-land  !  Along 
the  rock  there  hangs  a  street  with  many  colored  houses,  with 
balmy  trees,  and  children  dance  up  there  in  the  warm  sun." 
We  wander  through  the  city ;  here  are  old  reminiscences,  here 
are  rare  legends !  here  are  also  charming  roses,  and  still  pret- 
tier children.  I  met  quite  a  little  girl ;  she  had  a  large  bou- 
quet. She  smiled  on  me.  Seeing  a  stranger,  she  stopped, 
took  one  of  the  prettiest  roses,  gave  it  to  me,  nodded,  and 
was  gone.  The  rose  shall  not  wither  ;  it  shall  bloom  in  a 
poem,  and  when  the  little  one,  herself,  in  a  few  years  becomes 
a  full-blown  rose,  accident  may  bring  her  this  poem  :  will 
she  then  remember  the  stranger  to  whom  she  gave  the  flower  ? 

We  stand  in  the  open  square  before  the  town-hall,  over  the 
gate  of  which  there  is  a  picture  on  the  wall  painted  al  fresco. 
It  represents  an  old  man  in  a  black  habit  and  with  a  long 
beard  ;  he  bends  over  an  open  book.  What  does  this  picture 
signify?  What  says  the  legend?  It  is  a  tale  calculated  to 
awaken  horror.  This  figure  was  once  one  of  the  most  power- 
ful councilors  of  the  city ;  he  was  an  alchemist  and  astrol 
oger — feared  and  hated.  He  knew  how  to  appropriate 
everything  to  himself,  even  the  poor  widow's  little  field.  And 
the  poor  woman  forced  her  way  into  the  council  chamber 
where  he  sat  with  the  mighty  of  the  city ;  she  lifted  her  voice 
in  despair,  and  demanded  of  him  to  take  an  oath  that  he  had 
acted  according  to  law  and  conscience.  And  he  took  the 
book,  bent  over  it,  read  the  oath  with  a  hollow  voice,  raised 
his  hand,  and  swore.  Then  a  whirlwind  rushed  through  the 
hall,  and  they  all  sank  to  the  ground.  When  it  was  once  more 
still  and  they  rose,  the  perjurer  had  vanished.  The  window 
was  broken,  and  outside  on  the  wall  there  stood  living  in  every 
feature,  as  we  see  it  still,  and  ineffaceable,  the  figure  of  the 
councilor  of  Presburg.  The  devil  had  blown  him  into  the 
smooth  wall  like  a  colored  shadow. 

Our  steamer  was  again  on  its  flight :  we  met  another 
steamer,  Arpad ;  it  came  from  Vienna,  and  like  ours,  was  over- 
loaded with  passengers.  Hats  swung,  handkerchiefs  waved, 
we  looked  in  each  other's  eyes,  we  saw  ourselves  there,  and 


330  A    POET'S  BAZAAR. 

the  picture  vanished  again.  Not  one  of  the  many  figures  has 
remained  behind  in  memory,  except  that  of  a  lady  in  a  nan- 
keen cloak,  and  with  a  green  parasol  ;  she  has  found  a  place 
in  my  heart.  I  hope  she  is  as  affable  as  she  appeared  to  be. 

The  whole  morning,  long  before  we  had  reached  Presburg, 
we  saw  a  thick,  heavy  smoke  rising  in  the  horizon  ;  it  was 
a  fire ;  the  half  of  Theben  had  burnt  that  day.  We  ap 
preached  this  place  at  sunset ;  it  is  one  of  the  most  pictur- 
esque on  the  whole  voyage.  A  ruin  stood  on  the  top  of  the 
mountain,  certainly  the  finest  along  the  shores  of  the  Danube. 
The  red  glare  of  the  evening  sun  shone  on  the  wet  mill-wheel, 
which,  as  it  went  round,  seemed  to  be  of  beaten  gold. 

All  was  green  and  fragrant  around !  What  beauty,  what 
magnificence  in  the  whole  scenery !  Theben,  in  Hungary,  is 
a  little  spot  fallen  from  heaven,  and  here,  in  all  this  splendor 
of  nature,  was  wailing  and  need.  Half  of  the  town  lay  in  rub- 
bish and  ashes ;  a  thick  smoke  fumed  from  the  burning 
houses  ;  the  small  chimneys  stood  like  pillars  in  the  air ;  the 
roof  had  been  torn  off  the  church  ;  the  blackened  walls  had 
been  licked  by  the  red  flames  !  What  misery  !  many  mothers 
were  yet  seeking  their  children.  A  woman  stood  by  the  shore 
and  wrung  her  hands  !  A  burnt  horse  limped  away  over  the 
bridge ! 

We  hurry  past.  We  are  in  Austria !  next  morning  we  shall 
see  Vienna !  * 

Meagre,  endless  forests  lay  before  us !  The  air  was  thick 
and  hot  already  in  the  early  morning.  There  was  no  sun- 
shine, as  over  the  Mediterranean  and  the  Bosphorus.  I  fan- 
cied I  was  at  home  on  a  warm,  oppressive  summer's  day ! 
My  voyage  was  now  over.  A  dejection  of  spirits  crept  over 
me,  and  pressed  on  my  heart  —  a  prediction  of  something 
evil !  In  our  little  Denmark  every  person  of  talent  stands  so 

1  The  voyage  from  Constantinople  to  Vienna  occupies  twenty-one  days, 
besides  the  quarantine,  and  is  extremely  fatiguing.  They  pay  in  the  first 
cabin  one  hundred  gulden,  in  the  second  seventy-five,  and  on  deck  fifty. 
(A  gulden  is  about  half  a  crown  English.)  From  Vienna  to  Constantinople 
the  voyage  is  made  in  eleven  days,  it  being  with  the  stream.  The  pay- 
.ncnt  on  board  is,  therefore,  somewhat  more :  the  first  cabin  is  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty-five  gulden,  the  second  cabin  eighty-five,  and  on  deck 
fifty-six. 


FROM  PESTH  TO    VIENNA. 


33' 


near  the  others,  that  each  pushes  and  treads  on  the  other,  for 
all  will  have  a  place.  As  regards  myself,  they  have  only  eyes 
for  my  faults !  My  way  at  home  is  through  a  stormy  sea !  I 
know  that  many  a  wave  will  yet  roll  heavily  over  my  head  before 
I  reach  the  haven  !  Yet  this  I  know  full  well,  that  posterity 
cannot  be  more  severe  to  me  than  are  those  by  whom  I  am 
surrounded. 

Stephen's  Tower  stood  in  the  thick  warm  air,  above  the 
blue-tinged  trees  of  the  Prater. 


HOMEWARD   BOUND. 

I. 
VIENNA'S  THEATRE. 

THE  Dane  who  travels  in  Germany  comes  more  and  more 
to  the  conviction,  if  he  has  not  done  so  at  home,  that  the 
Danish  stage  occupies  an  important  place.  Most  of  the  large 
German  theatres  may,  certainly,  be  allowed  to  contain  con- 
siderable talent ;  but  the  Danish  stage  possesses  many  claims, 
and  has  infinitely  greater  powers.  Several  of  our  actors  and 
actresses  would,  if  the  Danish  language  were  as  extended  as 
the  German,  acquire  an  European  celebrity.  Our  repertory 
of  acting  plays  is,  besides,  so  rich  in  original  works,  that  they 
can  furnish  intellectual  food  for  the  winter  evenings  of  so  good 
a  quality,  that  there  is  no  need  to  resort  to  translations. 

Holberg,  Oehlenschlager,  Heiberg,  Overskou,  and  Hertz 
form  a  quintuple,  which,  in  dramatic  literature,  would  do 
honor  to  any  country.  "  Germany  has  not  one  theatre  like 
that  in  Copenhagen,"  I  have  heard  several  of  my  countrymen 
say,  and  I  must  acknowledge  the  truth  of  the  assertion,  when 
they  do  not  reckon  Vienna  amongst  the  German  cities.  Burg 
Theatre,  in  Vienna,  stands  quite  as  high  as  the  Danish  theatre  ; 
and  in  some  respects  higher,  from  the  mass  of  extraordinary 
talent  it  possesses,  the  union,  the  concert  of  their  acting,  and 
the  nature  displayed  in  their  performances.  Anschiitz,  Koni, 
Lowe,  Carl  la  Roche,  Wilhelmini,  Fichtner — these  are  artists 
in  the  real  signification  of  the  word !  Madame  Rettich,  Fru 
von  Weissenthurn  1  —  nay,  I  should  set  down  an  endless  row  of 
names,  were  I  to  point  out  those  who  may  justly  be  called 
excellent.  But  we  must  not  forget  to  add  that  Burg  Theatre 
has  this  advantage,  that  it  puts  out  its  whole  strength  upon 
comedy,  tragedy,  and  dramas.  Our  theatre,  on  the  contrary 


VIENNA'S   THEATRE. 


333 


as  we  have  but  that  one,  must,  besides  these  different  kinds 
of  performances,  divide  its  powers  between  the  opera,  the 
vaudeville,  and  the  ballet. 

"  Hoftheater  nachst  dem  Karnthner  Thor,"  in  Vienna,  is 
appropriated  to  the  opera  and  the  ballet.  During  my  stay 
I  did  not  hear  German  opera  here,  but  Italian,  and  that  the 
most  excellent  I  have  ever  heard.  The  male  singers  were 
Napoleone  Moriani,  Badiali,  Donzelli;  and  the  ladies  Tadolini, 
Frezzolini,  and  Schoberlechner.  I  heartily  wished  that  the 
Copenhageners  might  once  hear  such  an  Italian  opera ;  they 
would  and  must  be  enchanted!  Hitherto  they  have  known 
none,  and  have  for  some  years  past  despised  and  overlooked 
what  they  did  not  know.1  The  Northerns  cannot  sing  Italian 
music  :  the  reason,  probably,  why  "  La  Gazza  Ladra "  was 
hissed  off  our  stage.  Italians  should  sing  their  own  music, 
their  own  recitative.  Then  there  is  soul  indeed !  It  streams 
out  from  within  !  It  is  as  if  their  thoughts  and  speech  must 
reveal  themselves  in  song  —  it  is  their  language. 

In  the  Italian  towns  they  present  only  two  or  three  operas 
the  whole  season.  There  was  a  great  change  of  pieces  at  the 
Karnthner  Thor  Theatre.  The  newest  I  heard  was  "  II  Tem- 
plario,"  by  Nicolai.  The  choruses  are  particularly  fine.  The 
subject  is  the  same  that  Marschner  has  treated  ;  but  Marsch- 
ner's  harmony  is,  certainly,  far  superior,  and,  in  my  opinion, 
has  only  this  fault,  that  the  recitatives  are  wanting.  These,  it 
appears  to  me,  ought  to  be  introduced,  instead  of  the  dialogues, 
which  disturb,  nay,  almost  mar  the  effect  of  the  music.  In 
the  world  of  tones  all  must  be  music  ! 

The  theatre  "  Nachst  dem  Karnthner  Thor,"  has,  besides 
the  opera,  a  ballet ;  but  though  there  is  a  large  stage  here, 
with  plenty  of  pomp  and  show,  yet  the  ballet  department  will 
not  bear  any  comparison  with  that  of  the  Copenhagen  theatre, 
which,  at  this  time,  stands  very  high,  and  our  ballets  surpass  in 
taste  and  poetry  all  those  I  have  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
in  Germany  and  Italy.  Paris  and  Naples,  without  doubt,  excel 
us  in  the  number  of  their  dancers,  and  in  their  splendid  deco- 
rations, but  not  in  composition. 

1  It  was  after  my  return  home  to  Copenhagen  that  the  first  Italian  com- 
pany came  here. 


334  A  POErs  BAZAAR. 

When  the  Italian  Galeotti  died  in  Denmark,  Terpsichore 
wept.  Who  was  there  that  could  supply  his  place  as  ballet 
composer  ?  No  one  took  his  place  ;  but  a  new  one  was  born, 
who,  like  every  true  genius,  made  his  own  way  —  and  that  is 
Bournonville.  He  is  a  true  poet ;  his  "  Waldemar  "  is  a  great 
imitative  drama,  supported  by  Frohlich's  genial  music,  and 
his  "  Festen  i  Albano  "  is  a  lyric  poem. 

Besides  these  two  royal  theatres,  Vienna  has  several  others 
in  the  suburbs,  where  the  honest  citizen  enjoys  the  dialects, 
and  sees  every-day-life  illumined  by  the  Bengal  lights  of 
poetry.  We  dwellers  in  the  North  must  live  with  those  of 
Vienna,  and  know  the  people  well,  ere  we  can  value  rightly 
that  genial  life  which  exists  in  these  lightly-sketched  pieces. 

If  a  man  would  know  a  German  theatre  in  its  best  aspect, 
if  he  would  know  German  dramatic  literature,  know  it  when 
spoken  from  that  rostrum  it  was  written  for,  he  must  make  a 
stay  in  Vienna,  and  then  he  will  not,  as  I  have  heard  Danes, 
say :  "  There  is  no  German  theatre,  no  German  dramatic  lit- 
erature !  "  One  evening's  visit  to  the  Burg  Theatre  will  con- 
vince him  that  the  Germans  have  a  theatre,  and  as  to  its 
literature  their  dramatic  repertory  speaks  for  itself.  Schro- 
der's comedy,  "  The  Ring " ;  Jiinger's,  "  He  has  his  Nose 
everywhere  "  ;  a  drama  like  Ifland's  "  The  Hunters  "  ;  trage- 
dies like  Goethe's  "  Egmont "  and  Schiller's  "  Wilhelm  Tell," 
are  fresh  and  imperishable  branches  in  a  dramatic  literature  ; 
and  amongst  the  younger  men  what  does  not  the  dramatic 
power  and  poesy  of  Halm  and  Bouernfeld  proclaim  ?  and  we 
only  name  two  natives  of  Vienna. 

We  have  in  Denmark  a  species  of  poetic  drama  which  they 
do  not  possess  in  Vienna  ;  I  mean  the  Heiberg  vaudevilles ; 
but  however  great  an  effect  these  have  produced  at  home, 
partly  from  their  own  merit  and  partly  from  their  excellent 
performance,  yet  I  believe  they  cannot,  in  humor  and  poetic 
worth,  be  accounted  better  than  some  in  a  style  of  poetry  they 
have  in  particular  in  Vienna,  and  we  have  not  —  their  local 
comedies,  and,  in  especial,  Raimund's  ! 


PROFILES.  335 

IL 

PROFILES. 

THE  larger  squares  and  chief  streets  in  Vienna  present  the 
appearance  of  a  complete  picture  gallery  ;  every  shop  has  its 
handsomely  painted  sign,  either  the  portrait  of  some  famous 
person  or  an  allegorical  piece.  Every  open  place  or  square, 
and  every  street  afford  subjects  for  paintings  that  might  adorn 
a  whole  gallery,  from  its  living  throng  and  its  different  groups. 
Yet  sketches  of  this  kind  we  already  have  in  great  numbers  ; 
so  by  way  of  change  we  will  just  cut  out  a  few  profiles  of  well- 
known  persons ;  but  you  must  remember  that  profiles  do  not 
give  more  than  the  shadow  of  a  likeness. 

"We  are  in  Volksgarten."  Gentlemen  and  ladies  stroll 
under  the  green  trees  in  lively  conversation ;  the  waiters  fly  in 
all  directions  to  procure  ices.  The  tones  of  a  great  orchestra 
spread  through  the  garden.  In  the  midst  of  the  musicians 
stands  a  young  man  of  dark  complexion ;  his  large  brown 
eyes  glance  round  about  in  a  restless  manner  ;  his  head,  arms, 
and  whole  body  move ;  it  is  as  if  he  were  the  heart  in  that 
great  musical  body,  and,  as  we  know,  the  blood  flows  through 
the  heart  :  and  here  the  blood  is  tones ;  these  tones  were 
born  in  him  ;  he  is  the  heart,  and  all  Europe  hears  its  mu- 
sical beatings ;  its  own  pulse  beats  stronger  when  it  hears 
them :  the  man's  name  is  —  Strauss. 

We  are  in  one  of  the  suburbs ;  in  the  midst  of  an  English 
park ;  there  is  a  little  palace,  and  there  lives  Prince  Didrik- 
stein.  We  pass  through  a  range  of  handsome  rooms  ;  the 
sounds  of  a  piano  meet  our  ears.  The  scene  is  rich  and 
pretty  here  ;  here  is  a  charming  prospect  over  the  garden 
terraces.  The  tones  we  hear  have  their  birth  from  one  of  the 
piano's  masters.  Liszt  does  not  play  thus  !  He  and  the  one 
we  hear  are  equally  great  and  equally  different.  Liszt  aston- 
ishes, we  are  carried  away  by  the  whirling  bacchanals  ;  here, 
on  the  contrary,  we  stand  aloft  on  the  mountain  in  the  clear 
sunlight  of  nature,  filled  with  greatness  and  refreshed  with 
peace  and  grace  ;  we  feel  glad  in  the  holy  church  of  nature 
where  the  hymns  mingle  with  the  dancing  herdsman's  song. 


336  A   POET'S  BAZAAK. 

Who  is  the  mighty  ruler  of  this  piano  ?  Regard  him  ;  he  is 
young,  handsome,  noble,  and  amiable  !  Do  you  not  know  my 
profile  ?  Then  I  must  write  the  name  under  it  —  Sigismund 
Thalberg. 

We  drive  out  to  Hitzing,  the  Fredericksberg l  of  Vienna ;  we 
stand  by  a  delightful  little  summer  residence  ;  the  garden  is 
rich  in  trees  and  flowers.  The  old  lady  within  is  the  gai- 
dener ;  she  has  planted  every  tree :  she  has  set  every  flower 
in  the  ground :  here  are  pine  and  birch,  tulips  and  odorous 
lindens.  Flowering  rose  hedges  form  the  borders  around  the 
fresh  grass-plot.  A  tall,  hale  old  woman  comes  to  meet  us ; 
what  penetration  is  in  her  eye,  what  mildness  in  every  feature ! 
Who  is  she  ?  We  enter  the  room  ;  on  the  table  stands  an  ele- 
gant vase  with  the  image  of  a  lyre  encircled  by  a  laurel 
wreath  ;  its  leaves  are  partly  gilt,  partly  green.  The  names 
of  comedies  are  impressed  on  these  leaves ;  the  gilt  ones 
announce  the  pieces  in  which  she,  as  an  actress,  enchanted  a 
whole  people ;  the  green  leaves  bear  each  the  name  of  one 
of  her  own  dramatic  works ;  the  meaning  is,  that  she  has 
gilded  the  other  authors'  laurels,  her  own  stand  always  fresh 
and  green  !  The  vase  is  a  gift  from  brother  and  sister  ar- 
tists ;  at  the  bottom  we  read  her  name — Johanne  von  Weis- 
senthurn.2 

We  are  in  Vienna-:  we  go  up  some  broad  stone  steps,  be- 
tween thick  cold  walls ;  large  iron  doors  with  padlocks  on, 

1  Fredericksberg,  at  about  an  English  mile  from  Copenhagen,  is  the  re- 
sort of  the  people,  as  Hampstead,  Highgate,  Greenwich,  or  Richmond,  is 
for  the  Londoners. 

a  Since  my  return  home  to  Denmark,  this  highly  respected  actress  has 
taken  leave  of  the  stage ;  she  played  the  last  evening  in  two  of  her  own 
pieces.  The  translations  from  her  "  Sternberg  Estate,"  and  "  Which  of 
them  is  the  Bride  ?  "  have  been  successful  on  the  Danish  stage.  Previous 
to  her  leave-taking,  she  performed  often,  not  only  at  the  Burg  Theatre, 
but  at  the  palace  of  Schonbrunn  ;  she  told  me  she  had  lately  performed 
the  old  mother's  part  in  Le  Gamin  tU  Paris,  for  the  first  time  ;  but  at  the 
moment  when  the  boy  springs  up  on  the  chair,  puts  the  paper  hat  on  his 
head,  folds  his  arms,  and  imitates  Napoleon,  she  was  so  overwhelmed  with 
recollections  of  the  place,  and  from  that  stage,  that  she  had  nearly  forgot- 
ten her  part  for  the  moment :  just  here,  in  this  same  little  theatre,  she  had 
played  before  the  real  Napoleon,  who  in  the  same  position  had  looked  a» 
her,  the  German  actress. 


THE    WORKMAN.  337 

present  themselves  on  each  side,  within  which  money  and  im- 
portant papers  are  kept.  We  enter  a  small  chamber;  the 
walls  are  hidden  by  book-shelves  in  which  stand  large  folios  ; 
round  about  are  packets  of  writings  and  all  the  appliances  of 
business.  A  tall,  serious  man  sits  before  the  desk ;  it  is  not 
poetic  matters  that  occupy  him.  The  austere  expression  in 
his  countenance  changes  to  sadness.  He  looks  at  us ;  there 
are  soul  and  thought  in  that  look  !  How  often  has  he  not  fixed 
it  on  the  face  of  nature,  and  it  was  reflected  therein  !  In  his 
youth  he  sang  for  us  about  the  combat  in  his  soul ;  his  muse 
revealed  itself  spectral-like,  and  yet  the  picture  was  like  the 
fresh,  blooming  maid,  "  Die  Ahnfrau."  In  his  manhood  he 
gave  us  "  The  Golden  Fleece  ; "  it  is  hung  up  in  the  Muses' 
temple ;  his  name  beams  forth  —  Grillparzer. 


III. 

THE    WORKMAN. 
A  SKETCH   FROM   BOHEMIA. 

WE  have  not  only  left  the  Imperial  city,  we  have  even  come 
into  the  midst  of  Bohemia.  Rich  corn-fields,  linden-trees,  and 
pictures  of  saints  —  these  attract  us  here. 

It  is  sunset ;  we  see  "  Riesenbirge  "  —  alas  !  how  small,  how 
misty ;  I  fancy  I  see  Kullen  from  the  coast  of  Zealand  !  It 
is  not  the  Greek  mountain  outline  ;  here  is  not  the  Greek  at- 
mosphere with  its  transparency.  But  yet  I  know  this  spot : 
the  sight  of  these  low  mountains,  that  extended  green  field, 
the  linden-trees,  and  this  stone-heap  close  by  the  way-side.  I 
saw  it  several  years  ago,  and  just  in  the  same  light  as  now ! 
It  seems  not  to  have  won  a  flower,  not  a  bush  more  since  I 
last  passed  here  ;  in  my  thoughts  and  heart  there  is  a  new,  a 
richer  flower-blossom  than  these  :  flowers  from  the  North,  the 
South,  and  the  East.  The  place  has  even  lost :  the  chief 
figure,  which  in  my  memory  belongs  to  this  landscape,  is  want- 
ing. Here  on  this  stone-heap  there  sat  a  young  workman  in 
a  blue  blouse,  his  hat  covered  with  oil-cloth,  stick  in  hand,  and 
knapsack  on  his  back  ;  he  was  the  picture  of  youth  and  health. 


338  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

Where  is  he  now  wandering  in  the  world  ?  Or  perhaps  h« 
has  already  found  a  quiet  home,  sits  with  wife  and  child  just 
now  at  this  hour,  and  tells  them  of  his  wanderings  through  Bo- 
hemia. There  is  much  to  hear  ;  a  wandering  life  is  a  life  full 
of  change  !  Does  he  remember  his  resting  here  on  the  stone- 
heap  ?  Does  he  remember  the  diligence  which  then  drove 
past  him?  A  stranger  peeped  out  of  the  window,  and  let  him, 
as  the  best  figure  in  the  landscape,  mirror  itself  in  his  thoughts. 
No,  he  remembers  it  not  He  throws  his  arm  around  his  wife, 
kisses  his  beautiful  boy.  The  traveller  is  yet  no  further  in  the 
world  than  by  the  stone-heap  —  there  where  the  workman  sat. 


IV. 

A  GRAVE. 

ALOFT  on  the  mountain,  with  prospect  over  city,  river,  and 
wood-grown  isles,  lies  old  Hradschin.  The  church  here  con- 
tains the  body  of  St  John  Nepomucen  in  a  magnificent  silver 
coffin.  What  pomp  within,  what  splendid  scenery  without !  and 
yet  this  is  not  the  place  that  the  Dane  visits  first  in  Prague. 
Down  by  the  market-place  is  a  poor  little  church  ;  a  piazza 
and  a  narrow  yard  lead  to  it.  The  priest  says  mass  before  the 
altar ;  the  congregation  kneel,  and  mumble  an  "  Ora  pro  no- 
Ins  /"  It  sounds  like  a  hollow,  mournful  sigh  from  the  abyss ;  it 
pours  forth  like  a  painful  sob,  a  cry  of  lamentation.  The  Dane 
wanders  through  the  aisle  to  the  right ;  a  large  red-brown 
stone,  in  which  is  carved  a  knight  in  armor,  is  set  in  the 
pillar.  Whose  bones  lie  mouldering  within  ?  A  countryman's ! 
a  Dane's !  a  master-spirit !  whose  name  sheds  a  lustre  over 
Denmark !  —  that  land  which  expelled  him.  His  castle  at 
home  is  sunken  in  rubbish  ;  the  ploughshare  passes  over  the 
spot  where  he,  in  his  cheerful  room,  searched  the  writings,  and 
received  the  visits  of  kings ;  the  sea-gull  flies  through  the 
air,  where  he  read  the  stars  from  his  tower ;  his  island  of 
life  and  happiness  is  in  strange  hands.  Denmark  does  not 
own  it ;  Denmark  owns  not  even  his  dust ;  but  the  Danes 
mention  his  name  in  their  bad  times,  as  if  a  denunciation  pro- 


A  NORTHWARD  FLIGHT. 


339 


ceeded  out  of  it :  "  These  are  Tycho  Brahe's  days !  "  say 
they. 

The  Dane  weeps  by  Tycho's  grave  in  a  foreign  land,  and 
becomes  wrathful  against  an  undiscerning  age.  Denmark, 
thou  hast  hearts  in  thy  shield ;  have  one  also  in  thy  breast  1  " 
Be  still,  son  of  a  younger  race  ;  perhaps  thou  thyself,  hadst 
thou  lived  in  his  time,  wouldst  have  misjudged  him  like  the 
others;  his  greatness  would  have  stirred  up  the  sediments 
of  thy  vanity,  and  thou  wouldst  have  cast  it  into  his  life's  cup. 
Race  resembles  race  —  therein  consanguinity  betrays  itself. 

A  sunbeam  falls  on  the  grave-stone  —  perhaps  a  tear  also  ! 
The  congregation  mumble  their  evaporating,  painful  "  Ora  pro 
nobisl" 

V. 

A   NORTHWARD   FLIGHT. 

SPRING  will  soon  be  here  ;  the  birds  of  passage  then  tend 
toward  the  South.  Homeward  I  go  from  Bohemia's  capital  in 
steamships  and  steamboats !  Well-known,  changing  scenes 
glide  past ;  beautiful  summer  scenery,  friendly  faces,  friendly 
voices  —  the  hours  vanish,  and  before  I  know  it,  I  am  in  the 
North. 

Yet  I  still  see  Hradschin  beaming  in  the  sun,  high  above 
flourishing  fields  and  charming  groups  of  trees.  Beautiful 
morning !  blot  out  from  my  memory  the  remembrance  of  yes- 
ter-evening's wandering  in  the  "  Baumgarten,"  the  park  of 
Prague.  It  appeared  to  me  like  a  church-yard  where  people 
would  be  merry,  but  could  not.  Decent,  orderly,  but  tiresome 
burgher  families  sat  and  drank  ale  under  the  trees  where  not 
a  single  bird  twittered  ;  ugly  Bajaderes  with  buckram  in  their 
coats  went  up  and  down ;  even  the  puppet  theatres  were  in 
a  bad  humor  ;  no  one  spoke  for  the  dolls  ;  they  dumbly  threw 
out  their  arms,  and  fought  each  other.  A  coffin  played  the 
principal  part  in  the  piece. 

Why  does  the  inelegant,  ungraceful,  unhandsome,  fix  itself 
so  strenuously  in  the  mind  ?  Prague  has  so  much  that  is 
characteristic  and  beautiful !  Fresh,  balmy  morning,  blot  out 
all  ugly  and  unpleasant  remembrances  ! 


340  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

The  flag  waves  on  the  Bohemia*  Like  a  fish  through  the 
water,  it  shot  down  the  stream  between  picturesque,  wood 
covered  rocks.  On  every  ruin,  and  in  every  little  town  that 
we  dart  past,  there  waves  a  flag ;  they  greet  us  with  music ; 
the  people  wave  their  hats ;  small  cannons  crack,  and  echo 
answers  :  it  is  a  charming  voyage. 

We  have  a  Copenhagener  with  his  daughter  on  board.  "  It 
is  delightful !  "  says  she  ;  "  but  the  water  is  so  horribly  yel- 
low ;  here  are  none  of  our  beech  woods  !  " 

"  They  are  terrible  mountains  !  "  says  the  father.  "  See, 
what  a  fellow !  I  shall  not  go  up  it !  One  can  see  just  as 
well  from  below  !  " 

That  one  can«<?/  /  Ascend  the  rock  !  Let  the  fresh  moun- 
tain breeze  whistle  round  you,  and  be  glad  with  the  great 
abroad  and  with  —  the  beautiful  at  home  ! 

Hirniskretschen  greets  us ;  we  are  on  the  borders  of  Saxony. 
"  Trakten  tir  "vacker  i  hvad  som  finncs  och  forsvinncr  for  b'gat 
i  Italien,  gor  nu  en  star  efect,  smd  strommar  smd  berg  /  "  This 
is  the  whole  of  Ehrensvard's  striking  description  of  the  Saxon 
Switzerland ! 

When  the  Naphtha  spring  has  ceased  to  stream  forth,  we 
then  value  the  last  bubbling  drops !  Farewell,  ye  green,  wood- 
crowned  rocks,  I  exchange  you  for  the  extended  plain  with 
clover  and  beeches  by  the  open  strand. 

Dresden  lies  before  us  in  the  thick  air,  Northern  Germany's 
Florence ;  where  Madonna,  the  Virgin  mother,  stands  with 
the  heaven-born  child  on  the  hovering  cloud.  The  Protestant 
bends  to  the  divinity  in  art !  Dresden  is  a  friend  one  will 
not  willingly  lose  ;  he  has  something  —  what  shall  I  call  it?  — 
half  civic,  half  romantic  in  his  character.  His  gardens  are  of 
a  rocky  nature,  with  Konigstein  and  Bastei ;  his  study  the  gal- 
lery with  the  magnificent  paintings.  The  new  theatre  is  a  pic- 
ture-book, so  motley  and  splendid,  with  gold  and  scroll  work. 
Yes,  here  we  are  in  the  middle  of  the  picture-book  ;  we  are 
overwhelmed  with  its  diversified  splendor !  Authors'  portraits 
adorn  the  ceiling ;  the  boxes  are  gilded  and  well  poised  ; 
beauty  sits  here  in  the  mussel-shell,  as  her  sister  Venus  Ana- 

1  This  is  the  first  steam-vessel  that  sailed  between  Prague  and  Dresden 
k  began  to  ply  about  a  month  before  my  arrival. 


A  NORTHWARD  FLIGHT.  341 

dyomene  has  so  often  done ;  the  drop  curtain  presents  to  us 
Parnassus,  where  well-known  figures  appear  before  us,  —  Cal- 
deron,  Moliere,  Gozzi,  Schiller,  Goethe,  and  other  great  spirits. 
The  border  forms  an  arabesque  of  a  dramatic  character  ;  here 
are  Romeo  and  Juliet,  King  Lear,  Mephistopheles,  Faust,  and 
so  on  in  an  endless  row.  Yes,  the  theatre  is  a  real  picture- 
book,  the  play  and  opera  are  the  text.  I  trust  it  will  cause 
us  to  forget  the  imposing  imagery. 

It  is  well  to  be  here  ;  but  we  are  on  a  journey —  "  bent  on 
speed ; "  yet  a  pressure  of  the  hand  from  our  dear  Dahl, 
Vogel,  Winckler,  and  the  roaring,  snorting,  tearing,  steam- 
engine  is  away  over  field  and  meadow  to  Leipsic,  to  Magde- 
burg, and  again  by  steam  to  the  furthest  corner  of  Germany, 
to  great  Hamburg.  It  is  a  short  voyage  ;  the  hours  may  be 
told ;  but  we  stop  on  the  way,  and  that  for  days. 

Melody  has  a  strange  power  •  friendship  and  admiration 
are  equally  as  powerful.  Mendelssohn -Bartholdy  lives  in 
Leipsic. 

How  snug  and  comfortable  it  was  in  his  home ;  a  handsome 
and  friendly  wife,  and  all  so  hospitable  for  the  stranger !  A 
little  morning  concert,  where,  by  the  by,  I  heard  "  Adam,"  was 
given  in  Mendelssohn's  room.  The  gifted  Frau  Goethe  from 
Weimar  and  I  were  the  fortunate  guests.  In  the  church,  and 
on  the  same  organ  that  Sebastian  Bach  played,  Mendelssohn 
gave  me  one  of  Bach's  fugues  and  a  few  of  his  own  composi- 
tions. Mountain  and  valley,  heaven  and  the  abyss  poured 
forth  their  hymns  from  the  organ-pipes  ;  that  was,  in  truth,  a 
church  concert !  Thou  hast  played  for  me,  and  therefore  I 
bring  thee  my  poor  tribute. 

The  steam-carriage  flies  with  the  swallow's  flight.  We  are 
in  Magdeburg.  We  sleep  here  a  night,  and  are  again  on  the 
Elbe. 

The  steamer  is  dirty  and  heavy  ;  it  stops  on  its  course,  goes 
on  a  little  way,  runs  aground,  and  goes  on  again  ;  the  beauti- 
ful scenery  around  reveals  itself  in  a  willow-tree  or  a  pasture 
field.  It  is  cold  and  gray  here.  The  poet  must  help  nature, 
for  it  always  helps  him.  They  read  on  board,  for  here  is  a  per- 
fect reading-room.  What  book  is  that  which  two  at  once  are 
so  buried  in  ?  It  is  a  Danish  book.  Do  not  sav  that  Denmark 


342  A   POET'S  BAZAAR. 

has  no  mountains ;  its  literature  is  a  mountain,  high  and  wood- 
grown  ;  it  is  seen  from  our  neighbor-lands,  shining  blue  in 
the  horizon.  Be  cordial  to  us  ;  wander  through  our  spiritual 
mountain  scenery :  here  extend  Oehlenschlager's  mighty  for 
ests ;  Grundtvig's  tumuli,  where  the  stones  give  forth  a  mel- 
ody like  Memnon's  statue;  here  lie  Holberg's  towns  with  liv- 
ing beings  as  we  see  and  know  them  ;  here  is  the  scent  of 
the  fresh-mown  hay  in  Christian  Winther's  clover  field.  In- 
gemann  leads  thee  by  moonlight  through  the  sweet-smelling 
beech  woods,  where  the  nightingale  warbles,  and  the  springs 
tell  thee  of  olden  memories.  Hertz  and  Heiberg  will  teach 
thee  that  the  Danish  language  has  tones  —  that  it  can  be 
forged  into  whistling  arrows,  into  flaming  swords.  There  is 
life  moving  in  the  young  race.  Hear  him  who  sang  of  Venus, 
Cupid,  and  Pysche ;  he  who  relates  "  A  Brother's  Life  ! " 
Follow  him  whom  thou  art  reading  here  in  the  vessel  :  and 
who  is  he  ?  A  pseudonym,  —  one  Carl  Bernhard,  the  younger 
brother  of  the  author  of  "  An  Every-day  Story  ;  "  the  younger 
brother  who  is  rising  as  the  elder  is  declining  :  the  young  tree 
shoots  forth  new  and  fresh  branches  every  time  ;  the  one 
stronger  than  the  other.  The  elder-tree  has  lost  its  life's  fresh- 
ness, its  new  branches  are  dry  and  decayed  ;  they  fall  of  them- 
selves from  the  crown,  which  gives  scent  in  "The  Light 
Nights"— in  "Dreams  and  Reality." 

The  passage  down  the  Elbe  is  soon  ended ;  it  is  the  last 
evening !  How  gray,  how  cold  !  The  swallows  and  martins 
fly  across  the  river  to  their  nests  under  the  house-roofs  and 
their  holes  in  the  declivities. 

The  swallow  comes  from  the  warm  lands  in  the  spring-time  ; 
instinct  drives  it  toward  the  North  ;  it  leads  it  through  the 
airy  desert  to  its  nest.  By  the  yellow,  rolling  river  with  the 
poor  green  shores,  stands  a  small  house  with  a  blooming  elder- 
bush.  "  There  I  must  go !  "  twitters  the  swallow.  "  Desire 
draws  me  thither,  from  the  tall  palm  and  the  shady  plantain." 

The  elder-bush  exhales  such  sweet  fragrance.  The  old 
grandmother  sits  on  the  threshold,  and  looks  at  the  ships  ;  a 
little  girl  sits  on  her  stool,  and  amuses  herself  with  the  flowers 
on  grandmother's  gown.  Poor  swallow  1  thou  comest  again ! 
The  flowering  elder  is  cut  down  ;  the  old  grandmother  is  in  her 


A  NORTHWARD  FLIGHT.  343 

grave  ;  the  little  girl  is  out  in  the  world  with  strangers.  The 
house  itself,  where  thou  built  thy  nest,  is  smartened  up  and 
ornamented  ;  the  new  owner  will  not  permit  any  swallows' 
nests.  Alas  !  how  changed  ! 

It  is  morning.  Enveloped  in  a  cold,  raw  mist,  the  towe  3 
of  Hamburg  stand  before  us.  We  are  in  the  North.  The 
Elbe  rolls  its  milky  waves  against  our  ugly  steamer.  We  land ; 
we  drive  through  the  dark,  narrow  streets.  Here  is  music,  a 
great  musical  festival.  This  evening  all  will  beam  with  light, 
away  over  the  Alster,  and  under  the  green  avenues.  Liszt  is 
here.  I  shall  hear  him  again  in  the  same  saloon  as  when  I 
departed  —  hear  again  his  "  Valse  Infernale  !  "  Shall  I  not 
think  that  my  whole  travelling  flight  was  only  a  dream,  under 
Liszt's  rushing,  roaring,  fuming,  foaming  fantasias  ?  Not 
months,  but  only  minutes  have  vanished.  "  No,  time  has  ad- 
vanced !  "  say  my  many  countrymen,  whom  I  meet  on  the  Jung- 
fernstieg.  "  We  have  gone  greatly  forward,  whilst  you  were  on 
your  travels  ;  we  have  got  omnibuses  in  Copenhagen."  Yes, 
it  goes  forward,  say  I  to  myself,  as  I  on  my  wanderings  see 
Heiberg's  name  brought  to  the  corner  of  Altona.  Miss  Sich- 
lau  has,  with  "  Emily's  Palpitation,"  brought  his  name  to  the 
Elbe.  There  it  is  on  the  play-bill,  which  is  plastered  up  at 
the  street-corner  :  an  itinerant  Danish  company  perform  Hei- 
berg's vaudevilles  in  Altona. 

Music  sounds  ;  rockets  ascend  !  Farewell !  Over  the  swell- 
ing sea  to  the  green  islands  ! 

I  have  never  known  home-sickness,  unless  when  the  heart 
has  been  filled  with  a  singular  love  at  thinking  of  the  dear 
friends  at  home,  an  endless  pleasure,  which  pictures  forth  the 
moment  that  we  see  them  again,  for  the  first  time,  in  the  well- 
known  circle.  Then  the  picture  comes  forth  so  life-like,  that 
tears  come  into  the  eyes  ;  the  heart  melts,  and  must  forcibly 
tear  itself  away  from  such  thoughts !  Is  this  home-sickness  ? 
Yes  !  Then  I  also  know  it.  The  first  moment  of  arrival  at 
home  is,  however,  the  bouquet  of  the  whole  voyage. 


THE    END. 


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